She Found Out I Wasn't Okay

The first time she found out I was hurting myself was on New Years Day. You can't see me but I just snorted. My family has a knack for never ending or starting the year right. I was maybe 13, and started at the age of 12 (or 11, I'm never sure anymore), so it had been a while when she first found out. Thirteen year-old me thought it was a great idea to take pictures of the cuts I cast upon myself, which was stupid. I was stupid. Maybe I didn't put a passcode on my iPod, or maybe I did and gave her the password, but she scrolled through the various pictures in my camera roll and saw. I didn't know she saw until she walked through our bedroom door with tears streaming down her face, and her smile replaced with anger.

Nobody knew what was going on. My step dad stood in horror as she screamed with me backed up against the corner, crying my eyes out while denying the fact I had fresh ones, and old scars on my left arm. She wanted to see. I remember clutching my arm close, protecting myself with my arms which were covered in long sleeves. God, I remember wearing long sleeves during the summer, sweat enveloping me during those god awful days.

I remember her screaming why why why are you doing this to me? A bunch of if you wanted to die why are you doing it that way why?! She was screaming and screaming and all I was thinking about was that blade in the restroom tucked safely under something I can't remember. Her hands against my exposed back as she scratched and cried. My sister was screaming at her to stop, I was pleading, sobbing, reasoning with her as I hid the real fact of why I started.

I cried myself to sleep that night.

And the next day I was made to promise I would never do that again.

Surprise, I didn't keep that promise. Only this time they were deep, instead of petty little scratches. The pain I was feeling was too much not to do anything. She found out when we went for my physical. I had to get undressed in front of her. It was in that doctors room that I started bawling my eyes out. The nurse thought it was me being terrified of needles, and my mom thought maybe I was wearing a piece of her underwear, which I found hilarious but I couldn't laugh then. The tears ran down fast and hard and I realized I had to tell her. I was probably in that room for thirty minutes or more just trying to show her, admit to her that I didn't stop.

I remember the disappointment that crossed her face, the fake smile she put on as the doctor walked back in. My mom helped me hide them from the doctor, and thankfully it worked. I don't remember what happened after that, just that this time there was no screaming, only crying and disappointment. I think that second time was when she ignored me for days. She took my phone away thinking that the people I talked to online were telling me to cut.

I was desperate. I pushed myself to see the school counselor, and told her what happened. I told my (at the time) best friend what had happened also. The counselor called my mom that day and told her that I was basically looking for attention. But it worked, my mom talked to me a day after that. I told myself I was never going to a counselor again.

The third time she found out was around five in the morning. She'd come home from work. Instead of them being on my left arm, they were now on my thighs. Deep ones, fresh ones, old scars, and new scars. I was wearing shorts. They were risen up and she woke me up. This time she did scream. She screamed enough to wake my sister up beside me. I sobbed and pulled my hair as she pushed me for answers I will never be able to give her. She said a bunch of things I don't feel like going over. I know she loves me, but being put in situation like that due to my own doing made me feel like I wasn't loved.

The constant guilt I felt just putting her through that over and over agin was unbearable. I felt so guilty. She didn't understand that I wasn't okay, and that I wasn't cutting to spite her; she didn't understand that I was cutting because I was in pain, and at those points in my life that was my only escape.

We don't always understand things when they happen, and that in itself is understandable.