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You know what's sad? She (meaning my Grandmother) is the reason I started cutting. Thanks to her calling me names, manipluating my Father, and talking about me like I wasn't even there, I've changed. I still remember the day when she hurt me (back in the middle of 8th grade). She started up, insulting my Father (who was at work to support us) and then when I told her that he was only working to pay off the bills, she snapped.

She yelled at me. Told me I was fat, I was useless, that I was a liar. Then she said to get out of the kitchen because she couldn't stand to look at me.

I ran upstairs in tears and stumbled into the bathroom. What happened next is what I hate myself for. I dug a razor (a big one) out of my Dad's closet (since it was his bathroom) and attacked my left arm.

Cutting hurts, people. It's not what you think. It stings and made me cry harder and harder. And now that I'm into it, I don't think I'll ever stop.