First Time I Cut Myself

I was twelve and scared of failure the first time I cut myself. I had just fought with my parents when I saw it -- a razor on my bathroom counter. I had used it earlier in the week to shave my legs. I picked up the razor, I washed it, meticulously scrubbing at the sharp edges to wipe off any vestiges of bacteria I could see. I brought the blade to my wrist, and SLASH! I had done it. I cut myself, and seeing the rivulets of red running down my arm, a four-year addiction began.

I was fifteen and tired of living when I confessed to my first boyfriend my continuing struggle with self harm. I was there when I saw the flash of disgust in his eyes, I was there when he broke up with me a week later. I didn't blame him then, and I don't blame him now. He asked me how I could possibly love another person if I struggled to love myself. I couldn't answer him then, and I can't answer him now. I don't know if I could feel love then, but if I could, it certainly wasn't for myself. I went home and cut myself again.
I explained to him every single thing that had hurt me and every single thing that had made my life worth living. For the first time in four years, I opened up about my thoughts and feelings. I confessed to my biology teacher my continuing struggle with self harm. I was there when I saw the sympathy in his eyes. I was there when he hugged me and didn't say a word. He didn't need to say a