I was at school before classes actually started. I wasn't in a classroom, the hallway or even the auditorium although I guess I could've been in the auditorium since it was probably open and the security guards weren't at school yet. I was in the 2nd floor girls bathroom, in a stall, cutting with my shiny metal razorblade. I had already made several cuts on my arms earlier.
I'd been cutting since I was 13. That was a hard year. That was the year my Uncle Simon was killed. As was my Great Aunt Julie, one of my grandfather's favourite people. That was also the year my dad had been shot. He wasn't killed, if that's what you're thinking. He was, however, in the hospital for several months. My Uncle Simon and Great Aunt Julie both had been driving drunk and crashed into each other, killing each other instantly. My dad had been trying to stop a guy from shooting at another guy when he got shot at himself. That was a really hard year for my mom and I both as well as the rest of the family. My Aunt Ruthie, a psychologist and Mom's younger sister, had taken time off to help with all of this. All of these things happened in winter. That was one reason I didn't like winter.
The other reason I didn't like winter was because of my depression. SAD, to be more exact. Ruthie was the one who had diagnosed me, actually. I had been seeing her for about a year now and really liked her. Everything said between us was strictly confidential, even though I was 17. Since Ruthie had grown up in the family she knew what it was like. She wasn't married and didn't have any children of her own but said if I ever needed somewhere to stay I could stay with her, which I had several times.
It was snowing outside. It had been snowing for several days now and would probably continue to do so. We were in the dead of winter. I had woken up that morning feeling worse than usual. No, I wasn't pregnant, not yet anyway. Although with the way things kept going, I might be. I had stopped having sex with guys some time ago because I was so depressed I didn't get anything out of it it wasn't fun for me anymore. I knew what was wrong with me. I had depression.
Ruthie knew that I cut. She wasn't against it but she wasn't for it, either. She and I discussed, among other things, why I cut and the 'cutting dynamics' rather than telling me I needed to stop.
After I finished cutting, I wrapped my arms in the gauze I had brought with me then slid the long sleeves of my black turtleneck over them. The cuts hurt but the inner pain hurt more. I then walked out of the bathroom, into the hall, sat down and waited for school to start. After school I had a session with aunt ruthie. School was boring and nothing much interested me anymore.