My mother rarely worried about me, she didn’t have a reason to. I always portrayed as the ‘good girl’ when I was with her, mainly, because her hands were already full with my brothers’ rebellious phase and her two jobs. Truthfully, she didn’t have the energy for anyone else; I don’t blame her. After my father was deported, she was now a single mother raising four children; it wasn’t easy.
The days that followed after my mother found out about my cutting were normal. She didn’t check on me. She didn’t worry. Yes, she asked questions, but that was about it. My guilt belittled my own existence and compassion understood her situation. The blade was my only escape, so I continued to slash away; I expanded my museum on my arm all the way down to my thigh. Every time I closed myself in the bathroom I would make some sort of incision; it didn’t matter if it was deep enough that the blood would pour out continuously or small enough for just a small drop to escape. The blade was my stimulus; I had to have it.
My cutting lasted for about another year.
I stopped when I turned 14 years old.
I was 14 years old when I met him.
I was 14 years old when my struggle and acceptance for love commenced.
The blade was my friend.
Love was my enemy.
Yet, I stopped unaware of the unknown that waited for me.