The walk to the kitchen is different this time. I can feel the freezing, repellant wood floors through my wool socks; the chilling air-conditioning lures me down as I descend the cascade of stairs. Feeling the walls inching closer, I quicken my pace. The kitchen’s layout is engraved in my mind after spending my whole life in this one house. The isolation is both comforting and threatening. I trace my fingertips over the glabrous countertop as I find the lightswitch and make my way to the back of the room. The knife block is in its usual place: pushed into the corner against the blue-green backsplash. Unsheathing the bottom, right-most knife makes it rasps the wood that surrounds it. I hold the blade up to meet the light; the satisfying glare from the cold steel reflects into my eyes. No longer ambivalent, I place the frigid metal against the center of my hand and swipe down in one fluid motion. The wince this time is smaller, as if my body is finally learning how to endure pain. Not yet setting the knife down, I watch the small droplets of blood slowly take shape and grow larger, combining with others, forming a puddle in my palm, but I do not recede -  I remain anchored where I am. I await the wave of regret that usually follows, but it does not come. Standing on the ground, unmoored, I feel the rush of adrenaline flowing through my veins.

Magazine and news articles about self harm try to explain the apodictic nature behind it all, but they never get the story right. I don’t know why I do it. Maybe because it is a pain I have control over; maybe it is because I feel I need to punish myself for thoughts in my mind - the thoughts that have burked me through my months of adversity. At the end of the day, I realize it is impossible to slake my longing for relief; impossible to palliate my emotions.

People have told me since I was small that I “seemed older,” but they never stopped to think why. Being precocious isn’t a completely admirable trait; it introduced me to concepts that I wish I had never discovered; from this I’ve learned to conceal my whirlpool of emotions from those around me; wear a facade to shield my true self.

Every night I’m forced to face the never-ending censure coming from my own psyche. It’s as if one side of me is bullying the other. People have told me therapy works, but why talk to someone about my problems when I know deep down that the only one who can alleviate my pain is me?
I crawl back into bed after carefully tip-toeing past my parents’ bedroom. I watch my chest rise and fall with each stale breath. At least my body is alive.