I was always afraid of sharp objects. Always. I was never able to kick the fear. I'm 16, and I still squirm and object and cry in the doctor's chair. I can't stand the sight of someone cutting themself, and I've been diabetec for 10 years. The only thing i'm used to if seeing myself bleed, and thats through a fingerprick. I wanted to cut and I didn't. I wanted to cut because...I'm not even sure why, exactly. I knew I wanted to. I felt like, if I could do this one thing, this one thing, maybe...I'm not sure what I expected. But I knew, I knew I wanted to do it SO badly. So very badly. I NEEDED to do it, but I just needed to kick this fear, this fear that was holding me back from so much. Holding me back from something new, from what I wanted...from dying, really. I'm not afraid to die. I'm just afraid of trying a new method, rather than the usual overdose. At the same time, I didn't want to be grouped in with the large population of teenagers who cut for no real reason than attention. I really, really don't want people to think I'm following the crowd, that I just wanted attention. My main purpose of cutting is that, I felt like when people saw the scars, they would finally see me on the inside. They would see how they've marked me. They'd see how I'm damaged. Finally, all the hurt on the inside would be apparant on this sickeningly flawless flesh. Finally, it would put this faceless agony into a more tangable form. Finally. Finally. So it came the day. I felt...nothing. I was at the brink. I wanted to die, and every excuse I've ever given myself, to breathe one more hour, one more minute, just to get from one second to another, dried out. I didn't care about college. I didn't care about freedom, or escape. I didn't care about anything. I simply wanted to go. I was on the phone with my friend, who was truly trying to talk me down. And as we spoke I was picking apart a razor. And then, I tried. No avail. I tried again. No mark. No blood. And then again. And then, And then, And then, I started to bleed. And suddenly, I was filled with a rush. I DID IT. Dear God, I did it. I was so...exillirated. Adrenailine rushed through my veins, and dear God I was so PROUD. I did it! I made it over my fear. And look...look at the blood. God, I was so happy, and it felt like relief. Relief from my suicidal thoughts. I could breathe again, and it filled me, and I started laughing and I didn't know, I was laughing because it STUNG. It STUNG and I couldn't believe how airy and light and WONDERFUL I felt, and I started cutting again, and again, and again and again, and I never wanted that feeling to go away.