There was no pain.  I felt absolutely nothing while I drew the shining razor across my arm. 
As the metallic blade tore through my skin, it left behind a footprint, a deep fissure exposing the
white flesh underneath.  The fissure slowly changed from pale white to a brilliant red as blood
filled its emptiness, and soon, a crimson river began to flow down my arm.  I found myself
mesmerized by the site of my own blood and felt nothing but amazement as I cut two more lines
into my arm - still no pain.  Some kind of trance fell over me with the emotional pain of my
depression overshadowing the physical pain I was inflicting upon myself.  As I finished cutting the
letter "P" into my arm, I actually felt relieved, less tense.  The more I tore apart my skin, the
better I felt.  For some reason, I believed that I was finally receiving the punishment I deserved;
but for what wrong?  My only transgression was hating myself, and I wondered if that was what I
was being punished for?  By the time I had finished destroying my flesh, four blood-filled letters
adorned my arm.  Letters that spelled "PAIN."  I couldn't think of any better word to describe
what I was feeling, what was going on inside of me; however, I didn't feel that pain now.  Instead,
I felt incredibly light-headed, like I was riding some sort of high.  The sight of my arm, covered in
blood made me feel... almost proud.  This I can't explain, but somehow I found solace in this
terrible act of self-destruction.

	They say that time heals all wounds, but it can't always make them disappear.  I realize this
fact every single time I touch the scars on my arm.  Even after two years of healing, both mentally
and physically, the words and symbols I cut into myself still stand in sharp contrast against my
pale skin.  Like the war scars of a brazen soldier, the pinkish-purple raised lines adorn my body as
a testament to the darkest time of my life.
	The pain first started to penetrate my soul the beginning of my sophomore year.  I should
have seen it coming.  My two best friends had just moved away, one to Florida and the other to
North Carolina.  During our years together at junior high, we went through pure hell for each
other.  My two friends were Jewish, and, unfortunately, a group of extremely ignorant and
pugnacious kids at our school decided to attack my friends because of their religious beliefs. 
These evil kids also went after all those who were friends with them.  Because of this, there wasn't
a day that I came home from school without bruises obtained in the dank locker rooms before and
after gym class.  As far as I was concerned, everyone hated me except those who suffered with
me.  The only way we survived was through the support and love we gave each other, and my
world fell apart when they left.
	Although I was never bothered by those people once my Jewish friends moved away, my
life continued to spiral downward.  School only made life worse by providing me with undesired
pressures such as conflicts with teachers and other students.  Religion still played a major part in
causing my depression.  This time, I was attacked by Christians for not believing in God.  They
labeled me a Satan-worshipper and other such terms because I wore all black clothing to school. 
Looking back, I'm sure I exhibited every major sign of severe depression; but no one noticed.  I
felt that no one cared about me.  It was when I had reached this ultimate low that I had the urge
the hurt myself.
	After one cold winter day at school, I came home and immediately retired to my room.  I
just sat there for what seemed like an eternity obsessing over how much I hated life and how
much I hated myself.  Whether I was searching for something to take my attention away from the
pain in my soul or wanting to violently punish myself because I hated who I was, I will never
know; but with this desire racing through my brain, I drudged into the bathroom and pulled out a
cartridge of Gillette shaving razors.  I studied the blades for several minutes until I figured out a
way to remove the metal restraints from the blade casing.  Using a pair of tiny scissors, I pried the
metal clamps off and removed the two encased razors.  In my mind, they were beautiful. The thin
metallic blades glistened in the harsh fluorescent lighting of my bathroom, and they seemed to sing
a hymn of salvation to me as I turned them over in my hands.  Since I only needed one of the
blades, I tossed the other into the toilet and flushed.  Tightly gripping the remaining instrument of
destruction in my right hand, I pulled up the sleeve of my shirt and very slowly tore apart my
living flesh.
	The next morning I woke up not really remembering what had happened the night before. 
That was until I discovered the blood-soaked bandage gracing my left arm.  I ripped it off and saw
amongst the dried burgundy blood four letters deeply slashed into my arm.  Deep down, I held no
regrets for my actions; and I even felt a little better than I did the day before.  Unfortunately, the
relief contained within my self-destructive actions did not last because, by the end of the day, I felt
no better than I had the night before.
	Although I cut myself many more times after that, the terrible act of self-mutilation never
helped to ease my suffering in the long run.  If anything it made it worse.  Eventually, my friends
and my parents caught on to my horrible state of existence and saved me.  For several months, I
saw a psychologist who, along with the support of those close to me, helped me to deal with my
negative emotions in non self-destructive ways.  I quickly learned that there is so much more to
life than hatred.  Once I learned to just ignore all the people and all the parts of life I despised, life
finally became worth living.  My only true regret is that someone didn't realize what I was going
through sooner and attempt to stop my suffering.  If this would have happened, my body would
not be covered in so many scars.  The final and most important stage of my recovery was when I
made the decision to stop cutting myself, and this decision, I made alone.  No one, not even my
parents, knew of my acts of self-mutilation until long after the fact.
	This, unfortunately, is not the end of the story.  The scars I obtained during this time have
yet to completely disappear, and not a summer goes by when someone doesn't ask, "what's wrong
with your arm?"  I usually shrug the question off, refusing to answer because I feel ashamed of
what I have done; nevertheless, there are still days when the urge to make myself bleed hits me
with the force of an atomic weapon.  These desires, however, become less and less powerful as
time moves on, and one day, I hope that the sands of time can completely erase both my
destructive desires and the past so well inscribed upon my skin.