I've always liked to write to make sense of my emotions, or simply for catharsis. I was given a hand-me-down journal when I was in second grade, which I still have.
I like to go back and re-read my journals occasionally. The early entries are cute and innocent. The most recent are desperate and searching. The rest are anything and everything in between, just...my life.
This one specific journal holds what's probably the turning point in my life...when I went from normal to sad. Eighth grade. That's when I started hurting myself, or at least the first time I wrote about it. I wasn't that girl in the bathroom with a razor, I just started scratching myself with my fingernails. "I feel like I deserve it," I wrote.
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