Triggering: Exactly one year cut free.

[BECCALICIOUS!]

When I look back on the past five years of my life, I am simultaneously horrified at the nature of the events that occurred in my life and also amazed at the strength I must have possessed that made me able to overcome such tribulations. If you had sought me out six or seven years ago as a scrawny little fifth grader and told me what the next years would bring, I would have refused to believe that someone as invincible as myself would fall prey to such deadly situations and last resorts. These past years have been far from a picturesque view, a rose in bloom, or a joyful sunrise. There may have been a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, but unfortunately my rainbow was colored in shades of grey. This is not a pretty story. You have been warned.

In the spring of 2005, I stood at the brink of adolescence as a twelve-year-old sixth grader at a small Catholic elementary-middle school. I was gangly and slightly awkward, perhaps, but I had everything. I was part of the “popular” clique with a close-knit group of girlfriends that did everything together. I had straight-A's and parents who bought me anything I asked for.

And then my lofty pedestal was shaken.

It is slightly awesome to realize how quickly life can change – an instant, even – from suny skies to a raging tempest. My metamorphosis wasn't an instantaneous flick of a switch; it took three months and an upset of realizations to topple my foundationless castle. My so-called “friends” allied against me, blaming me for every squabble that had ever occurred between any two girls in our grade; all illusions of my “perfect” family life shattered upon discovering that my mother had disturbing problems of her own. I was suicidal for the time, earning myself a first-class seat in the emergency room after writing suicide notes to the two friends that remained loyal. The emergency room delivered me to one therapist, then another after the first didn't exactly work out.

At first, Geena seemed like a miracle worker, the one person I could be honest to and cry in front of without fear or judgement. Then came the fateful day where she saw the self-inflicted scratch on my arm. All bonds of trust were broken as she pointed out the scratch to my mother and told her to watch this twisted habit of mine.

I stopped seeing Geena after that; slowly I built up sandcastles for the tide to wash away when she wasn't looking. I didn't care about “getting better” because I never imagined that I could heal the internal pain. So instead I led everyone on; I quit the suicidal act and plastered on the happy facade while on the inside I was dying. But one fateful day, I was risen from the dead in order to dance with the devil.

I was searching a junk drawer for a tape measure, my hands brushing across empty film canisters, old batteries, and paper clips. Suddenly a dirty, ragged box appeared beneath my fingers. I opened it; its contents contained two razor blades, brand new and perfect despite their filthy container. Giddily I ran upstairs and hid them in my bedside table drawer for use after dinner.

That night was one I remember perfectly. I held a razor in my hand delicately, as though it would break, but with a steady hand. (Who would ever thought that instead, I would be the one breaking?) Slowly, deliberately, I pressed the blade into my left arm and lightly dragged it across. Beads of crimson blood surged forth at an alarming rate, and I was relieved when the perfect spheres didn't break and trickle down my arm. I etched line after line into my skin.

In that moment, I was God.

My self-mutilation escalated quickly. What started as a few lines on one September evening quickly mutated into an armful of gouged-in lines per snowy December night. It was my pretty little secret that was hidden in plain sight; my wounds, which I refused to hide during school, certainly shocked many of my classmates. It was a sugar rush to tell them “Oh, I fell off my stilts” or “My grandparents' cat scratched me the other weekend” despite the fact that these phrases were blatant lies that no one cared enough to call me out on. I was unstoppable, even when teachers and principals were pitted into my path and threats of therapy were made and my life turned into a game of he-said-she-said.

By eighth grade, I was seemingly alone. Although I had supposed friends, my friendship was always displayed in a dark closet where no one could see it unless someone opened the door. My true friends were, in order of importance, the razor, my schoolwork, books, and art. My isolation earned me the valedictorian spot in my class of twenty-one eighth graders, but it never earned me a spot in any of their hearts. I suppose that is why the razor was my closest companion that year; the sting of the blade and the ache of fresh cuts hurt far less than sitting alone at the end of the table every day for lunch, or hiding in the girls' bathroom, afraid to go outside for recess because I knew that no one would be waiting for me.

I grew more and more proficient with the blade as time passed, teaching myself how to cut deep enough so the blood would trickle down my wrist to drip off my fingertips, yet shallow enough so that I would never accidentally – or intentionally – cause permanent damage to myself. But some nights, straddling this shallow, murky line between false safety and wild abandon was too much for me. There were some nights where I would allow myself to be lost to the numbness and let the razor do its dirty work, leaving ugly marks that would certainly scar, until I finally cut deep enough to truly feel what I was doing to myself. Only then would I be able to stop.

By my freshman year, I was a broken soul, not only suffering from my own self-destruction but also enduring suffering through wicked hands and words. A boy entered my life to sweep me off my feet and then he took my crayon-drawings of love and ripped them up becausethey meant nothing when it came to what he wanted. I experienced touch and feelings that no fourteen-year-old girl should ever have to know. It was only when I found myself at the threshold of suicide – yet again – that I was able to claw my way out of the relationship on torn hands and bruised knees.

And then I was saved by my knight in shining armor.

Ryan B was hopeful, happy, and innocent. Of course, there were a few skeletons in his own closet, but for the most part we were polar opposites. He was a bright and shining rainbow in my world now painted black. He risked his life and sanity to dance with my demons and replace them with joy, hope, and love. There were no empty promises or ripping up my illusions of a brighter tomorrow. Ryan couldn't save me, but he showed me what love meant and offered me the first open hand I had ever seen towards recovery.

For a while after Ryan and I broke up, my life faded to grey. There were cuts, lots of them, all over my body. Therapists and psych wards and threats and shouting in the hopes of getting me the help I needed. After a week in Children's Psychiatric Emergency Services in the late spring of 2008, there were urges to cut, urges beaten, and sleeping and numbness and loneliness. I was alone again. And after almost two months, the razor emerged from its slumber, well-rested and ready for use.

The spiral began to reverse direction and flow downwards. I didn't just use blades to destroy my body; this time there were pills and touch and suicidal ideations. Too many nights I held a knife to my throat or a belt around my neck and considered ending it all. I was on a crash-course with death and no one or nothing could make me stop.

This self-destructive path led onward until December of 2008. One evening early in the month, I was frequenting iTunes when I remembered a band my friend Lizzy told me about, called Between The Trees. Inspired, I immediately downloaded “The Way She Feels” only to have my life changed forever. They spoke of a girl who cut and how she gave up her knives and self-injurous life for another. If she could do it... why couldn't I?

At that moment in my life, I had two best guy friends. Ryan M and Kevin G had always been there for me, reading three-page notes and listening to scores of rambling Instant Messages online, looking through the tear-stained pages and hidden scars to embrace my shattered heart. They had done so much to try to heal me, the least I could do was let myself heal. If I couldn't do it for me, I was going to do it for them.

I spent the first three weeks asleep, drug withdrawl coursing through my veins as I craved those sweet blue pills. Then there was a shift; it wasn't that I was letting myself function, but instead I was forcing myself to get through every day – wake up, go to school, do homework, eat, sleep, no cutting whatsoever. Slowly my life began to knit itself back together. I had friends. I didn't cry for three months. I got straight A's one quarter of my sophomore year, and I had a supportive boyfriend who helped me beat my inner demons. I even reached my six month mark without self-injury.

Then somehow that all shattered. I felt the slip coming for a month before it happened, though I thought if I kept fighting, the urge would eventually go away. It was day 199 without cutting, and my sister was angry that I didn't put away the popcorn machine. She came upstairs and threw it onto my bed, leaving a permanent grease mark on my brand-new bedding. Calmly and carefully I collected the popcorn machine, brought it downstairs, and put it away. In that moment, I had no other options, no other choices, no other thoughts. I had to cut. I grabbed my purple-handled scissors and dug a tiny little scratch into my ankle that barely bled but did the job.

A week passed. I kept cutting little sliver cuts across my body, because somehow I knew that I couldn't get through this. I was dating Dan P at the time, and he was over my house one day and forced me to show him every cut that I had inflicted on my body. Reluctantly I did, and after showing him the last one on the inside of my wrist, he told me, “You're going to promise me you'll never do this again.”
It's almost funny now that I made a promise to one of the biggest liars I've ever met.

After Dan broke up with me, it wasn't only my life that turned to grey again. It was the past seven months I spent with him, such pretty colors painted over a crumbling wall of lies. But at this point in my life, I was about six months self harm free, and I wasn't going to give that up over a silly boy who tried to break my heart.

Despite my determination, it took a lot of time for the wounds Dan left to heal over. I spent months dreading going to school every day, desperate and anxious not to see him again. I had lost so much – not only a boyfriend, but friends as well. People stopped talking to me simply because I was “the ex girlfriend”. There were too many breakdowns and sleepless nights and way too much of the question, “Why?”

But there was also someone important to help me through. Jimmy K was there for me when the tears threatened to become too much and when I needed answers to the unexplainable questions. He helped me to remember that people loved me and needed me to get through. He is the reason I managed to make it through the latter part of this year cut-free.

And now I find myself at the end – not of this battle, but of this journey to make it to one year without intentionally harming myself. At some points it seemed futile, a treacherous journey across stubborn boulders that would never seem to shift. But there were still moments where I would dance through fields of wildflowers and life would be perfect. Life isn't perfect. It never will be; I have at least learned that much.

The pot of gold at the end of this rainbow wasn't what I expected to find. I haven't found stability or the perfect remedy to this deadly addiction. It has been trial and error, mistake after mistake and struggle after struggle. There have been times where I stradled the boundaries of recovery with a pair of scissors in my hand, pressed against my skin... but luckily I never was weak enough to press down. That's right – weak enough. At one point I thought it was strength that enabled me to press a sharp blade against my own wrist and drag it across, but now I see that I was wrong. It was strength that allowed me to get through this year without it. It was strength that enabled me to forge through the tears and the questions. It was strength that allowed me to smile, laugh, and love.

So where do I go from here? I am a healed girl. I will wrap myself in white cotton and dance like an idiot in the summer grass. I will wear orange and white and call myself recovered. I will go on to senior year, then graduate (hopefully!) and head off to college. I don't know what will happen from there. But there is one thing I do know: I will be strong. I will never give in to the allure of a blade again.

[Kitty.]

Becca this is an amazing story. Congratulations on being cut-free for one year! Keep going strong! You are such an inspiration! (:

[Victoria ♥]

I'm so happy for you. You've done so well to make it a year. (: Keep it up!

Also, you're amazing at writing!!! xD

[Imagine]

You have done amazing. I remember back in Feb when i made it to one year!

Keep up the good work