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When Normal Isn't Right.
Cut one: I lay the scissors back down on my dresser and gazed proudly upon my bleeding hand. One slice and I had officially entered the realm of “teenage-hood.” I had always been different, throughout childhood. Here I was, thirteen now, and I finally felt right. Like so many other frustrated teens I had gone down the path of destruction, oh how good it had felt. I just wanted to be normal, this was the way to do it.
Cut Two: I just wanted to be normal, but everything, everyone, was against me. High school was getting tough, and I’m not talking about grades, I’m talking social life. Pain resonated through my heart, and I tried desperately to figure out what was wrong with me. I’d always been able to think things through, figure things out, find the most practical and efficient way to solve the problem. However how can you fix something you don’t understand? I couldn’t put a finger on exactly what the problem was, but whatever was hurting me was hurting me bad. “Hormones” I told myself, but it was deeper then that.
I stared down at the scissors on my desk, then at my pink little hand. All the scars had healed. I had nothing to show for last years silly, immature little slicing.
Suddenly the scissors seemed oh so enticing, so tempting, so satisfying.
I knew the proper thing to do would be to apply self control, I knew I had it in me, but what would a normal teenager do?
I stared horrified at my purple wrist, and then suddenly it felt good. The bleeding felt right: the outside showcased the inside.
Cut Three: Bad things happen again and again. Every time I craved my newfound solution. I still couldn’t put a finger down on what was wrong, but I knew exactly what to do. “Harder” I thought “Harder to match the pain in my heart.” There now, everything was better. There was a place I could point my problems too.
Cut Four: I glared madly at my opened arm. The bruises were showing nicely, but the blood refused to come. I wanted it to look horrifying, because thats how I felt. Deeper went the scissors, deeper then ever before. A trickle of blood sprang up and began to flow. I threw the scissors back.
“ What’s happened to me?” I thought. I knew it wasn’t right, but after all: every teenager goes through a period of trauma.
Cut One Hundred and Fifty-Seven: Again Pain was bounding up and down the streets of my soul, this time its terrible music played louder then ever. I grabbed the scissors but they couldn’t go deep enough. I had never felt this way before, now I must find the cut to match. Somehow mom’s best cheese knife found its way into my hand, maybe the devil put it there when I wasn’t looking.
Cut, where I’d never cut before.
Is this normal? of course. But normal people don’t commit suicide.