The Death of Happiness

	This is my sister, Whitney, and I at my family’s house in June of 1992. It was my second Birthday.
	My sister and I at the Yesteryear Fair in Fall of 1992. I was two years old.
	This is my official dance picture for Spring of 1993. I was still two at the time.
	My sister and I on a rock pile in Fairview Park during Fall of 1993. I was three.
	My dad, my sister, and I in our backyard next to the snowman we had just built. It was during the early months of 1994. I was three.
	My sister and I in our family’s kitchen in Spring of 1994. I was three.
	This is me on Easter in 1994. I was still three.
	My sister and I celebrating the 4th of July in 1994. I had turned four less than a month before.
	This is me on Easter in 1995. I was still four.
	This picture was taken during my kindergarten year in late 1995. I was holding Reddy Teddy, the mascot of our classroom. I was five.
	This is my sister, my dad, and I in Spring of 1996. Each year we both did a separate Father/Daughter dance with our dad, but we always took a picture with all three of us. I was five.
	This is me later on in Spring of 1996. I was still five.
	This is my sister and I on the first day of school in Fall of 1996. I was six.
	This is my soccer picture from Fall of 1996. I was six.

          These are just a few of MANY, MANY more pictures that were taken during the years before my family fell apart. I picked these pictures because they show the true essence of my family at the time. We were happy. We all shared a connection, which was what held us together during those years. No one in my family was prepared for what would happen in 1997.

          It was June 21, 1997. I had turned seven only nine days earlier. By the time that I woke up that Saturday morning, my mother had already left for my grandparents’ house after receiving a frantic call from my grandfather. All I was told was that my grandma had passed out, but that she would surely be okay. I may have only been seven, but I had a bad feeling about what was happening. However, everyone seemed to think she would be okay and that was good enough for me.

          My mother and I had made plans for that day. My mom’s friend Sara was in town with her daughter, Ellen, who was my age. Sara’s parents were having a rummage sale and my mom had volunteered to help. Of course, I had begged to go with her so that I could spend time with Ellen. I had been looking forward to that day for a while, but with my mother dealing with a family emergency, I was sure that the day’s plans were pretty much shot. However, I was told that my mom wanted me to go ahead and walk up to Sara’s parent’s house because she didn’t want my day to be ruined. Their house wasn’t more than a couple of blocks away and I had walked there many times before.

          Of course, I began walking as soon as I could. It only took me ten minutes or so to get there. The first thing I did was find Sara. I wanted to explain to her why my mom wasn’t there. It turns out my mom had already called her to let her know. She told me that Ellen was next door playing with our friend, Carly. I walked over to Carly’s house and knocked on the back door and her mom answered. She told me Carly and Ellen were playing in the living room and that I was welcome to join them, so I did.

          When I walked into the room, I found Carly and Ellen sitting on the floor making craft dolls. I walked over and sat next to them and the first thing out of my mouth was, “My Grandma Kirby is sick. My mom had to rush over to her house this morning. I think she’s at the hospital.” I guess this was my way of telling them that I was unsettled and worried. They both thought for a second and decided that we would all three make craft dolls for my grandma as get well gifts. I thought it was a wonderful idea, because I knew my grandma would love them, so I quickly agreed.

          I had been working on my doll for maybe an hour when Carly’s mom walked into the room. She told me that my dad was outside waiting next to his car and that I needed to go with him for a while. Being determined to finish the doll I was working on, I protested, but Carly’s mom insisted that I leave with my dad. She said I could come back and finish the doll later. I reluctantly agreed.

          On my way outside I started to think. Something didn’t feel right. Why was my dad picking me up so soon? At the time I was angry because I wanted to finish my gift for my grandma. When I got to my dad’s car, I attempted to bargain for at least a little more time. I thought he would get angry for me asking to stay, but instead of getting angry, he simply said, “Honey, I know you want to stay longer, but right now I really need you to come home with me because the rest of the family is waiting for us. You can come back later.”

          I was caught off guard. I got into the car without any more trouble and my dad started for home. About half way there I asked my father, “Why is the family waiting for us, Daddy?” He simply told me, “We’ll talk about it when we get there.” I was thoroughly confused.

          When we pulled into the driveway, my dad told me to go upstairs to the sitting area in his room. He said to tell my mom that he would be up there in a minute. I followed his instructions and found myself sitting on the couch with my two little brothers. My sister was in the armchair and my mother was just standing there in front of the TV. It was quiet except for the sounds my two year old brother, Nathaniel, was making. It didn’t take long for my dad to get there. He picked up Nathaniel and sat down on the far end of the couch placing Nat on his lap. It was then that my mom started to talk.

          “There is something that I need to tell you.” She paused for a moment. “Your Grandma Kirby died this morning.”

          I felt like I had just been hit by a train. This couldn’t be happening. The tears started running down my face, as I curled myself into a little ball. It hurt so bad. It felt like nothing would ever be okay again.

          My grandmother died that day, but she wasn’t alone. My happiness died right along with her. My life would never be the same again. My family would never be the same again. It would all become a downhill train wreck from there.

R.I.P. Grandma

An Introduction

As I sit alone in my apartment, my mind races. I can’t handle this. I hate my life. I hate myself. Where is my blade? Goddamnit. The police took it. Now what? Wait a minute. I have another razor in the bathroom!

I walk into the bathroom and pull the razor package out of the cabinet below the sink. One left! Now all I need is something to pry this casing off.

I walk into the kitchen and pull a flathead screwdriver out of my drawer of assorted junk. This should do the trick!

I walk over to my desk and sit down. I turn on my desk lamp. I start to pry the protective casing off of the blades of the razor. Come on! Why does this have to be so difficult! Damn these expensive razors!

The casing pops off the razor and I pull each of the three blades away from the backing. I’m very careful so as to prevent myself from slicing a finger. I pick up one of the blades. Holding it with my right hand, I place the blade against the skin of my left forearm. Wait. What am I doing? Why am I resorting back to this? I vowed to give this up. I SWORE to my best friend that I would never hurt myself again. I can’t do this. Not now, not ever.

I pull the blade away from my arm and quickly throw it in the trash can. I pick up the remaining two blades and throw them away too. Knowing this wouldn’t be enough to keep me away from them, I tied up the bag and left my apartment. I walked down the hall and opened the door to the garbage room. Once inside, I pulled open the garbage chute door and placed the bag inside. Then I let go.

I had won my first real battle against cutting. This took place only a few weeks ago. It wasn’t the first battle I had fought against cutting. It was just the first I had won. I know it won’t be the last though. In the coming months, maybe even years, I will have to fight against this enemy.

I started cutting when I was fourteen. By that time in my life I was pretty much drowning in my problems. Cutting was my way of trying to “cope” with my problems. I never knew It would take over my life the way it has.

This first few entries of this blog aren’t going to be about my life now. They will tell about my past. They will help you understand my later entries about my life today. I’ll post my next entry soon.