Ok, I know I said that with the first part, the story was complete, but I guess it wasn't.  This is from Meg's POV.  There is some disturbing imagery, but it isn't too bad.

~~~*~~~

I've not always been this depressed.  I remember when I was little that I was exuberant; not just happy, but exuberant.  Somehow, that all changed.

Dad died when I was 7 years old, and that left just Mom and me.  She was working before he died, but her workload increased because she couldn't support us with one job, and in between her 3 jobs, she worked almost 19 hours a day.  I didn't see her for 4 months straight.

Because she worked so many hours, I was shifted around to babysitters, family members, and Mom's friends.  They shouldn't have all been trusted with an 8 year old.

I was raped by one of my mom's 'friend's'.  He didn't even bother locking the door, luckily, I guess, because Mom caught him.

I never saw him again.  I later heard that the very angry father of one of my friends had murdered him.

When I was 10, Mom struck it big.  She got a high paying job, and quit the other three.  You'd think that since she was working only one job, she could spend more time around me, but I guess she couldn't.

It was a combination of many factors, triggered by Mom's inability to spend quality time with me, but when I was 10 years old, I cut for the first time.

It hurt like hell, but I felt so much better with that little jagged cut.  Very quickly I started cutting with greater and greater frequency; started off with maybe once a week, to two or three times a week, to several times a day. 

What also scared me is that the cuts started getting deeper and deeper.

I almost bled to death a couple of times.

The doctor at the ER sent for a psych consult.  I walked out before the shrink came.  I'm not crazy.

For some reason, I stopped cutting when we moved to LA.  I didn't get to know any of my neighbors except this doctor.  Doctor Jesse Travis has been my friend, I guess.  One of the only people I can call a friend.  He's listened to me gripe and complain about anything, and he worries about me. 

~~~*~~~

I guess the respite from cutting was short lived, because 4 months after moving here, I've started back up again.  Plus, I'm not eating.  It's not that I think I'm fat; I'm not.  I just don't want to feed myself before the starving kids in Africa get a chance.

I know it's crazy, but it's how I feel.

I cut too deep last night-another "Oh, Shit!" moment.  I didn't mean to, it just happened.

Jesse asked me if I felt alright.  I guess I'm pale.  I nod and smile.  "Sure, Everything's just kiwi."

He doesn't believe me.

I don't believe me either.

~~~*~~~

I don't know what set me off today, but I just began cutting the living daylights out of my arm.  Some are scratches, some a deep gashes.

That's when I realized cutting isn't helping as much as it was.

Is there a such thing as a cutting tolerance?

If there is, it sucks!

Somewhere in my rampage against my arm, I made up my mind to do something about my depression.

I'm not the type of person to commit suicide, or at least I thought I wasn't. 

I guess I'm wrong, because I found myself in the bathroom looking for pills.  There are pills of every size and color.  I grab a couple of half-empty pain pill bottles and some muscle relaxers.

I down the whole thing, and within 15 minutes, I'm out.

~~~*~~~

Oh, my God!  What have I done! I panic.  I crawl painstakingly to the phone.  I push my mind to tell my body to dial 911.

Somewhere, my angels are watching.

"911, what's your emergency?"

In my mind I said I took pills, I need help.  I'm sure that I didn't speak out loud as clearly, but the operator must have understood my urgency, because she said an ambulance was on the way.

That's the last thing I remember before I was on the ambulance.

They put a tube down my throat.  I guess I stopped breathing.  I also have a couple of IV's in my arms.  I passed out again until I was in a room at Community General Hospital.

~~~*~~~

Darkness.  It's the first thing I'm aware of.  A cloud of darkness.  A wall of plastic wrap.  I'm trying to break through.  I'm trying to fight for the first time in a long time.  Where am I? enters into my head at some point.  Then I hear it.  The voice of an angel; my savior.

"... you're probably scared right now.  I know you're angry and calm, sad and happy; just a torrent of emotions. I'm here, your mom's here, and a lot of good doctors are here to help you sort them out and feel better.

"I was there one time.  I though that no one loved me.  I thought that I didn't matter to anyone, and if I just went away, no one would care.  I was wrong, but it took me to be in your position to realize that..."

He attempted suicide? I know he didn't have a very happy child hood, but I didn't know that.  I struggle harder against the darkness.  I want to wake up.  I want to live so badly that I must have started crying.

"It's alright to cry.  You don't need to bottle everything up so much."  He has let go of my hand and is now stroking my hair.  His compassion breaks the dam.  I begin to sob.  I try to move my hands to wipe my tears, but I find it's restrained.

I finally open my eyes and see that I'm in restraints.  I try to calm the waves of emotions enough so I can talk.  I'm partially successful.  "W-w-why the r-r-restraints?"  I'm able to get out between my hitching breathing.

"Standard procedure.  Do you promise not to hurt yourself if I take them off?"

"Yes," I can barely whisper.

He goes to work wordlessly, and in a few minutes, I'm rubbing my wrists and ankles.  Also, by that time, I've started to breath normally.

"I guess you saw my arms and legs," I say.  I stare at a spot on the wall, not even daring to look in his eyes.

He guides my face so I'm looking in his eyes.  His eyes penetrate my soul, and I almost flinch at the intensity.  "Yes.  I have.  It's OK.  I don't think of you any less, but I hope someday, you can deal with whatever is bothering you without having to cut."

Damn!  I was expecting a lecture.  A lecture would be easier, because I could just tune him out and close myself off, but the approach he was taking was going to have to make it nearly impossible to keep myself closed off.

But I don't want to push the pain back down one more time.

One more bitter pill, and I'll scream.

Of course, I'd scream silently.

"When did you start cutting?" he asks.

I don't want to answer.  I rail against the question.  Or at least 90% does.  But the 10% is getting stronger all of the time, and I find myself opening up to him.

I do want help.  I just don't want to give up cutting.  It's my security blanket.

It's unfair to take my blanket and leave me out in the cold.

I don't want to be cold, but I don't want this blanket.

"I was 10 when I first cut into my skin..."