• I come home from a long day at school and throw my backpack on the floor and turn on my computer. Naturally, the first thing I do is open iTunes and start to dance around my room to a song that has been stuck in my head all day. The song ends; a new one begins. I freeze up, as if someone just pressed the pause button on my life. It's THAT song. Every time I hear it I get this awful taste in the back of my throat. Suddenly, my mouth becomes dry, my eyes start to water, and my skin starts to crawl. I sit down on the bed and stare at the wall.

    Suddenly, I'm back to my freshman year of high school. I start to feel disgusted with myself. I wear brightly colored, mismatching, knee high socks with my black, pinstripe pants rolled up, and my black sweatshirt stretching down to my mid-thigh. My face is more spotted with red dots than a piece of pepperoni pizza. My hair is like giant, brown fuzz ball. I see myself in the mirror every morning and cringe. I can't stand to look at myself for more than five seconds at a time, so I avoid putting on any make up (because that would require looking in the mirror for a considerable amount of time).

    Walking into the school, I keep my eyes down cast. Every once in a while I hear people cackling with a joke about the "ugly, emo-poser chick". I continue through my day, minding my own business, pretending I'm not there; I've never hated anyone more than I hated myself. It was like I was trapped in the body of a fat, ugly, loser who everyone hated. I haven't slept in days and I've been pretty much running on Diet Mountain Dew for months.

    Come lunch time, I grab my bagged lunch from my locker and throw it away. I pull out my third Diet Mountain Dew bottle and begin to drink it as if it were some magical potion that would take me away from there. I sneak past the lunch monitor and go sit in some hallway, alone, as always. I bring my legs up to my chest and rest my head on my knees and tears start to leak from my grayish-blue eyes. I quickly sit up and grab my ipod instead --my best friend-- and slip the ear buds into my ears. I crank it up and start listening to the song that is currently playing in my room at this very moment. Reaching into my backpack, I pull out my other two best friends: my massive bottle of Advil, and my trusty razor that's crusted over with blood. It reminds me of red paint on a statue that was chipped away over time.

    I grab my Diet Mountain Dew bottle again and take a giant swig of it, and empty approximately 30 pills into my mouth. I can taste the pills sliding down my throat mixed with the carbonated liquid and I shudder. I take another handful of pills and lean my head back against the lockers and close my eyes tightly. The song is still blaring in my ears, so I barely hear the obnoxiously high-pitched 'BEEeeEEeep!'.

    The bell rings and I see people starting to file out of their classrooms, going to the next lunch. Quickly, I slide my razor into my pants pocket and stuff my pill bottle back into the depths of my backpack as I stand up. I continue to my next class, keeping my eyes glued to the floor, praying no one runs into me.

    Class starts and I wait until we break for work time. I stumble out of my desk and clumsily step over some backpacks until I reach the front of the room.

    "Can I go to the bathroom?" I ask without looking up.

    "You can, but may you?" My teacher replies.

    I hear some kids snicker behind me. Blood rushes to my cheeks and I can feel my ears grow hot.

    "May I go to the bathroom?" I rephrase my question.

    There's a pause, then, "You may".

    I hurry out of the room as if it were filled with toxins. I bounce up the stairs and quickly slip into the safety of the bathroom. Checking to make sure the stall is clean, I choose the one farthest from the wall and quickly lock the door. I lean against the wall and roll up my sleeves. My wrists are covered in scars upon scars that reach all the way up to my elbow -- my thighs are even worse. Several of the scars are infected, and many of them are about as deep as the thickness of two to four quarters stacked on top of each other. Carefully, I drag my razor from my pants pocket.

    I hold it against my skin and my eyes water again. I know I don't really want to do this, but I also know that I deserve it. Scanning my skin for a clean spot clean of bloody scars, I raise the razor then bring it back down and slash it against my skin, over and over, harder and harder each time. I switch hands and do it to my other wrist. Blood starts to wash over my wrists and I sigh. I know I've already been gone too long, so I pull my sleeves down. I can feel the blood starting to soak into the fabric of my sweatshirt, becoming dry and crusty. It makes me sick, but I there's not much else I can do at this point.

    I wipe off some of the wet blood on my razor onto my palm and stuff it back into my pocket. I leave the safety of my stall and wash off my palm, and reluctantly leave the bathroom and return to class.

    I sit in my desk, unable to concentrate on anything else but the dry blood on the inside of my sweatshirt and the taste of pills that remains in my mouth.

    School's finally over and I begin my trek back home in the hot sun. Everything in my body begs me to take off my hot, heavy black clothes, but I refuse. A car speeds by and I can hear someone catcall at me then laugh hysterically. I watch the car speed by and I can't help but think about how easy it would be to throw myself in front of the next car that comes down the road. More cars pass by and my brain is taken over by temptations, but I somehow restrain myself.

    I finally make it home. I slink into my room and practically throw myself on my cold, hard wood floor. I reach into my backpack and grab another handful of pills. In a few moments I'm asleep on the floor. A half hour passes, and I'm awake again. That's the only sleep I'll get for the night.

    I decide it's time to go take a shower. I get the water running and turn it on so hot the room is soon filled with steam. I take the razor from my pocket and slide into the shower. I slash my thighs as hard as I can, the hate that I have for myself gives me the strength I need to go deeper.

    I finally finish my shower and slip into my PJ's and pull on another black sweatshirt. I take the razor out from the shelf in the shower and hold it to my wrist. I push down slowly with all the strength I have left. I repeat this on the same spot on my wrist over, and over, and over, and over again. I don't even bother to wipe off the blood on my razor.

    My mother is home now, and I exit the bathroom.

    "Did you eat?" She asks.

    I nod. Of course I haven't, but I cannot allow her to force me to eat.

    She inquires further, "What did you have?"

    "Cheese quesadilla" I say, knowing that a cheese quesadilla wouldn't leave much evidence for her to look for to find out if I actually did eat or not.

    She nods, and I know I'm allowed to go back to my room. I remain there for the rest of the night, and don't leave until the morning.

    This was how I lived my life for almost my entire freshman year; until my mother saw my scars on my wrists one time at a doctor’s appointment. She never did find out about my thighs, the pills, or the malnutrition issues, but after she forced me into therapy and threatened me with rehab if she caught me again, I cleaned myself up completely.

    The song ends. I'm back to my room at the present. I'm now lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. I sit up and I wipe my eyes, afraid to make my mascara run, and look down at my wrists. By now both are completely healed. I also look down at my thighs; I'm finally wearing jean shorts again, despite the old scars that remain there. Really, I wear short shorts not for the attention, but as a rehabilitation method I use for myself. The more I expose my scars and show the world that their opinions no longer matter to me, the less I get tempted to start cutting again; it makes me feel stronger.

    I can't help but smile to myself as I stand up and waltz over to the kitchen and fix myself a cheese quesadilla.