I Was Thirteen.

The first time I cut myself I was thirteen. My life was out of control. And that’s why I started. I wanted control over what I was going through. The pain I was feeling on the inside, to match the pain I was feeling on the outside.
                What was going on in my life? My house had caught fire. It didn’t burn down completely. But just enough that there was smoke, fire and water damage so bad, it was “unsafe” to live in the house any more. So my step mom, being a high ranking officer with orders to move. Went ahead and moved to our next destination that was four hours away. My dad had already served his time overseas and was struggling with PTSD and his own alcoholism. He was gone every night and most of the day for the three months I lived in a hotel. Alone.
                My brother was always at a friend’s house, staying the night. Catching rides to school. I was literally stuck. With only my dog, and music. I stopped listening to pop and hip hop. The feeling of it just didn’t mesh well with what I was going through. I found Linkin Park, and Papa roach. My life started matching the words to each song. Numb by Linkin Park was now my anthem.
                I would like to say that everything stayed boring and I was alone and that’s why I started to cut. But this is false. One morning around 2am, I had just showered and was about to get a snack. Sticking to a new schedule I had put in place for myself. I was walking to the kitchen we had in the hotel room we had. That’s when I was attacked from behind by a grown man.
                I was in impeccable shape from running cross country, so as I kicked the man away from me, I screamed and screamed. So loud. A scream I have never screamed before or again. I turned my body away from him and while he was grabbing at me, and trying to pull me to hi I kept kicking him away. As I lunged away from him, he stabbed the back of my calf with a four inch pocket knife.  That made me scream even louder.
                By this time I assume the office had been notified of the racket, I assume the lady I had befriended that worked there that cared about me bolted to my room; I assume that she didn’t care to try the door handle. But what I remember was her kicking the door open. This very large, usually harmless black woman from Louisiana. Her voice was always thick in accent that I grew to adore from her.
                She tackled the man, and held him down. She stayed there on him till the police came. They took the man into custody. The questions they asked are a blur, them finding my drunken father was a blur, them taking me to the hospital is something I can remember. All these things I can’t remember but I know must have happened.
                That man only got five years in prison. I don’t remember the sentence… he got out right after I turned 18. I am 19 now. I am a year and three months sober from cutting me. I started two days after this happened. 
cplaing cplaing
18-21, F
May 25, 2012