I stared at my “friends” as they called me a whore, stupid, fat, ugly, worthless and every other name they could think of. I ran from the middle school art room where we spent our Thursday lunches, a place that used to be for good memories. In the art office/supply room I dug for the new X-acto knife blades. Upon finding the item of my desire, I continued to the dark room in the photography classroom and locked myself inside. Standing over the sink, with the tiny almost dainty blade to tear my arm to ribbons, my blood pooled into the sink where only a couple hours ago I was rinsing chemicals off of photographs of myself and my “friends”. I had finally snapped and by ripping apart my arm that day, I ripped apart my life as well. Like Sylvia Plath before me I had learned the dangers of the addictive road of self-destruction.
Most teenagers and adults see addiction in the form of drugs, alcohol or even caffeine. Those addictions are ‘normal’ I didn’t think my cutting would be seen as an actual addiction, so I never told someone that could help. Day after day I would cut myself, every horrible name I was called became a scar and every bad thing someone said to me, was another slash on my arm, if not more. Slowly the cutting wasn’t really triggered by something specific. It became about how much I began to hate myself. Like Plath when he husband left her, the self-esteem I had built up was gone and the simple act of slicing my arm to pieces had become the worst addiction that I had ever known.

High school became my new way to destroy myself. Even though I was still a relatively good kid I still cut and then I picked up more bad habits. I began to drink my freshman year, not habitually but it still happened. Every once in awhile my “friends” would invite me to a party where I’d be pressured to drink away my problems. While the drinking helped, the cutting helped more and slowly worsened as the year progressed.

Sophomore year started out quite a bit better. I had submerged myself in the band which had helped to lessen my need to cut. I had started dating my best “friend” and it seemed to be a good year so far. As the school year and my relationship progressed my boyfriend treated me horribly. No physical abuse but emotional and verbal. He continued to try to force me to have sex with him, the more I refused the harsher his words became. Soon enough his best friend began to join the verbal and emotional abuse. He and I were already “friends” despite the constant verbal and emotional abuse and occasional physical abuse. With all of the constant abuse even I wondered why when another “friend” told me to kill myself that I didn’t. I broke up with my boyfriend and after a month of being apart we got back together, as his words began to cut deeper, so did I. Not only had I started cutting again, but I was ditching half my classes almost every day and had picked up smoking as well.

Sophomore year ended with less pain but more cutting. Over the summer my best “friend” and I spent everyday together or at some band event. She and I were inseparable and the boys we hung out with made the summer even more memorable. None of us were involved romantically with each other but we still had some great times on ‘adventures’ running around the neighborhood all night trying not to get caught breaking curfew. My junior year was bound to be the best yet.

As marching band started back up so did my depression. I don't know why it did but I know it made cutting become necessary again. My ex-boyfriend and I were getting along again and he claimed to be my “friend” again. My best “friend” had drifted away from me, she said she was too busy but I knew she had only used me as someone to spend time with. The band fell deeper into competition, as I fell deeper into depression and as my blade fell deeper into my leg. I had found a place to hide cuts so long as I didn’t change on the band bus at competitions. I had started dating a friend of mine from elementary school when we ran into each other at a competition. My best friend at the time had claimed to be ‘in love’ with me. In a fit of rage he posted hate towards me on Facebook and was constantly telling me how horrible I was. His words cut deep, but my blade cut deeper.

At a Halloween party at a “friend’s” house, everything seemed like it would go well my best “friend” at the time was dating my ex-boyfriend who at the moment was currently mocking our English teacher. After a while I got sick of laughing at the same dumb jokes I had always laughed at. I went upstairs to find one of the boys who were real friends sitting outside crying. While talking to him one of my best friends little sister took off out the front door and down the street. She had marched with us and very similar to me in 8th grade, she wanted to kill herself. I ran. I caught up with her alone in a park; she was shaking and collapsed into me very briefly. Realizing she still wanted to die, she took off again. Luckily two of the guys had followed, one ran to her the other ran to me as I fell to the ground and sobbed like a child. I felt as I imagined Plath had when her brother found her in a crawl space after three days of a “long walk”.

After that my cutting got worse. My “friends” continued to abuse me, telling me everything I did was wrong and that because of my low self-esteem I was a bad person. I was told not to push my “friend” around when I was upset, even though he did that to me. I was told to stand up for myself, when the one I needed to stand up to would beat me if I did. I cut them from my life. I couldn’t even get myself to go to school the next day. When those two were cut from my life my best “friend” went with them. I nearly died on the inside. I actually trusted them; I considered them my best friends. But they weren’t they were just like the “friends” in 8th grade who started the abuse.

Unlike Plath, I’ve learned however, to recover. I have delved into different ways of recovery. The butterfly project is one and the bracelet project is another. I’ve found ways to help myself not cut. I snap a rubber band sometimes rather than cutting myself to oblivion. Most people won’t admit cutting is an addiction, and most “friends” will tell someone to get over it. But if I can sit next to the “friend” every day in my English class, who constantly told me I wasn’t good enough, who had me scared to stand up for myself, maybe recovery isn’t as futile as everyone says it is. That’s why I’m going to keep trying, because I am still human. Just because I cut doesn’t make me less of a human being, and maybe Sylvia Plath was a coward for killing herself, because I constantly think of how it would feel to die, but I’m brave enough to stay here and fight because if I died, they would win.