I remember when my family went to Hong Kong Disneyland. Everybody had fun that day, and everyone slept tired, but with smiles on their faces. Except for me. There I was, in the happiest place on earth, and I was on my bed crying like a child while everyone else was asleep. My break-up hit me like a wrecking ball shot from a cannon at point blank range, and the wrecking ball was on fire. I couldn’t and wouldn’t show how scarred I was.

                  --

                  Those days, most people would say I looked perpetually depressed, and perhaps I was. I overthought, and my self-esteem went into dangerously low levels. But I didn’t care what other people thought. Those days, I barely cared about anything at all. I let my grades drop, and sometimes I didn’t go to school when I didn’t feel like it. My mother let me because she was worried.

                  One day I found a rusty spare razor blade on one of the tables at school. I looked at it for a moment and thought, and I forced myself not to think. This is why you’re so goddamn dull. Live a little. I impulsively hid the spare blade in my wallet and brought it home, trying not to let my mind wander to it much as I went on with my day normally.

                  That night, I was in my room, locked for good measure, even though my mom was out late again.

                  Didn’t they say that cutting felt good? Well I’ll tell you, that first time wasn’t. I didn’t cut deep, but aren’t smaller wounds more painful? I remember that day was August 24, because it was one week after our supposed anniversary – if we didn’t break up. Yes, I was that sentimental and shallow.

                  If I had to give an answer as to why, I’d say that I kept doing it for a lot of reasons. Out of loneliness, out of desperation. Out of fear. But especially out of loathing. I hated myself with a passion, and here was a perfect opportunity. If nobody was going to give me what I deserve, I’d do it myself.

                  I hated my mediocrity. I wasn’t into sports, or making music, or acting. I did not believe I wrote or drew well, whatever anyone said. I wasn’t even smart or good looking to make up for all of the things I’m not. I just am. I felt like a placeholder, for somebody that I could be, somebody better, talented, maybe taller. Somebody worth a damn. Somebody who could live the life that I’ve wanted to live, one that didn’t feel as inadequate as the one I was living then. I was so normal, and I hated that.

                  But it did feel good, eventually. It made me forget. It felt like release. It felt like it was loosening cuffs chained to me by the world. It felt like freedom. What better distraction from emotional pain than physical pain? It felt taboo. Pleasure always is. Sometimes it hurts more than it satisfies, but I say that I’d rather hurt than feel nothing at all, because if I didn't cut I’d remember how numb I was before this sultry habit. So numb that I only felt how dead I was after I started cutting.

                  --

                  I like how this one person put it: "I don't cut myself to die. I cut to feel alive." It explains the paradox of self-harm well, I think. Pain and blood; aren't they the best indicators that one isn't dreaming  or dead? As the Goo Goo Dolls once sang, "You bleed just to know you're alive."

                  --

                  After a few months, I realized that I no longer cut just because I was depressed. Cutting became part of my routine. Wake up, breakfast, shower, cut, go to school. It became part of who I was, embedded into my person. People took me to be the emo one. I didn’t like that, because they assumed that I was never happy, which I was not. I was still a person, not a stereotype, and I experienced joy just like the rest of you, even if it was not as often.

                  My mother found out eventually. Of course she did. We were in the car, with her driving, and she tried to hold my wrist, but I pulled away. She grew suspicious of my distance, my wristbands, before this, but never confronted me about it until now. I think that she knew (how could she not?), but her head could not possibly accept the idea that her son mutilates himself - until she saw the wounds of course, fresh from that morning, and she cried while driving. She almost crashed the car a dozen times, sadness and tears obscuring her vision, and I was holding on to whatever I can grasp for dear life. It was the most frightening experience of my life up to today. I am so sorry.

                  --

                  I promised her that I’d stop, if I didn’t go to a shrink. She kept her part of the bargain, but I didn’t keep mine. I couldn’t keep away. It held me tight. After that incident, I no longer cut my wrist, but I found my upper arm served well enough. I eventually got over my break-up, but I didn't get over myself, so I did not stop.

                  I worried about myself too. This was the time where I was starting to admit that there was something deeply wrong with me. I went to our guidance counselor to talk to her about it. She asked what was wrong. I stammered because I never told anyone before, so I asked if I could just show her and I did. She smiled concernedly. She didn't act surprised, or disgusted, or act so overly worried that I’d doubt her concern. I loved her for that. We talked about it. I visited her more often that year. And I still loved her even if she told my mom when she said she wouldn't and my mom freaked out again. I don’t blame her, honestly.

                  I did eventually stop. A close friend made me swear never to do it again. I don’t know why I kept my promise to her, but not my mother’s. Maybe I was doing it all for attention, and the attention I wanted was not from my mom. I did eventually stop but even now, the desire to do it again, to feel all of the red sadness to drip out of my body – it did not go away, and I believe it never will.

                  --

                  We were sitting in the place where couples usually go to have their privacy, although we were not a couple. There were a few other people around, but the night made them blur as they went past, or melt with the backdrop painted by streetlamps; we were practically alone. That night felt like any other, dimly lit and tired, except that I was with her, and that made everything seem lighter. I realized that I was tired of being by myself. I didn't know her then as I do now, but sitting on those steps that evening, I felt closer to her than anyone and anything else at that moment.

                  We were in the process of unpacking ourselves for each other to see. Stories about ourselves poured out of us like rain from clouds. She cried that night as she told me things that made up who she was - little intricate details that hurt when taken out, and she was taking them out one by one for me to see and I was trying to do my best to pick the pieces up. I was so afraid of saying the wrong things.

                  She took my hand. I couldn't resist, but I didn't want to. I loved her warmth then. She put her lips to my wrist where dozens of pale lines flawed my skin. She kissed what felt like every single one of them.

                  That had always been a small dream of mine – having somebody kiss my scars. I thought about it before and decided that it would feel like acceptance. It would be validation that they weren't ugly, and they didn't make me imperfect and that my insecurity didn't matter; that they didn't make me crazy or anything. And that maybe I could still be loved despite me.

                  Those kisses gave me what a thousand scars never could have. They gave me hope.