I am the good girl. I have excellent grades. I am the goody-goody-two-shoes of my school. I do many things after school, and I am good at them all. My favorite talent is telling what is in my heart. I love to write. I’m different from the other kids in my school because of that. No one else writes quite as much as I do. My pen is my soul, spilling out ink into characters that leap from my heart into the pages of a hundred files stacked in my closet. I almost see my life as some kind of story. I imagine there is a book somewhere, with shining black ink still wet on the page that tells my life’s story so far. That ink is my soul, in a fantastical world my mind created.
About a half a year ago, I got a taste of real life, and it was bitter. Yes, it was a typical reason that I became depressed. Roll your eyes now; a teenage girl was sad over a boy. I got a rejection, and it was pretty bad. Don’t think I can’t handle rejections, because that is not true. I’ve had my fair share of them, and dealt with them all without any more than a night or two of troubled sleep. One is gay, another just not interested, another too insecure, and yet another teasing me behind my back when he found out I liked him. None of them compared to the pain from this one boy. He was... less than kind to me (keeping my language PG) when I asked him out, and he never realized what he’d done to me emotionally. Actually, I’ve had several professional options saying that he might be a little insane. Maybe not insane, but he is certainly deaf to the feelings and thoughts of other people. Even if he is reading this right now, he would not realize that he is the reason that part of my book is written in Red Ink. Horrible Red Ink, spilling from that appalling fount.
It was March the tenth, and my fifteenth birthday was only a few days away. The unlucky thirteenth; almost funny isn’t it? The tenth was the day I started cutting. I was horrified at first, and went straight to my parents, who are the most caring and loving a girl could wish for. I showed them that Red Ink was spilling from my soul, from my wrist.
I cut myself to get rid of the pain inside. It had built up to the point where my fragile and naïve mind did not know how to cope, and I wanted that scalding pain out. I let it bleed out, like primitive doctors putting leeches on a patient to suck out sickness while feeding the disease with a weaker body. My soul was aching, and I popped it like a swollen blister. It was stupid of me, I realized that swiftly. I promised I would never do it again. The looks on my parents’ faces when they saw the Red Ink, on my friends’ faces when I told them and asked for help. Pained voices over the phone that begged me not to do it again; I decided nothing was worth putting them through that pain.
But only a month later, I did it again. Then again, and again, and again. Nail clipper, plastic knife, thumbtack, safety pin, fingernails, shaving razor; I used whatever was within arms reach. Finally, I touched the kitchen knives. My story had turned from one of shining black ink to one of scars and scarlet blood. It wasn’t even over that boy all the time. My Red Ink had become a drug to me that calmed my sorrow, stress, and anger.
Now I’m finally done. I will hold my head up high and never touch the accursed blades again. Those pens that bring forth Red Ink will not only hurt myself, but the people I love, who love me. My parents, who would do anything to make me smile, and my best friend, whom I value as a sister, if not more. If I cannot make them proud of calling themselves my parent or friend, then what kind of person am I? They are such good people, and they deserve better. I never want my little brother to know, so that he doesn’t see how flawed his role model can really be.
Cutting does more damage than we as teens can possibly comprehend at our age. Twisted scars run deeper than my skin now. They will stay with me for the rest of my life. When I am done with the trivial hardships and stress of school, they will still be with me. When I am in college at graduation, they will adorn my arm. On my wedding day, I will have scars. When I am nursing my children, I will have scars. One day, I may even have to explain to them why their mother would do such a thing. I have nightmares of their innocent faces.
“Mommy? What did you do to your arm? Why would you do that?”
Time is the best healer, and that is true. The emotional scars of everything will eventually fade. Maybe not completely, but they will not be as fresh or painful. They will be tolerable. I just need to make sure that I resist when they are not. Perhaps listen to soothing music. It will all be better in the end, but the scars will always serve as an ugly reminder as to what I did.
I want to be the best person I can be, and that means writing in black ink.