EDIT: DEDICATED TO MY FRIEND, BOB, WHO IS NO LONGER WITH US. I MISS YOU, BOB. WE LOVE YOU.

It starts with an emotion.
One you cannot control.
Perhaps, a feeling of being alone.
Hate, maybe. Worthlessness.

One day will be different from the rest.
Your parents will yell too much, or you will fail another test.
Suddenly, your life is spinning out of control.

Cutting.
You'd heard about it.
Terrible.

But you try it anyway, and you can never stop.

You hate every scar on your arms.
You are ashamed of them as soon as its over, ashamed of how good it feels.

The pain is indescribable.
Good.
Good pain.
Terrible pain.

You cut deeper.
Make this hurt last longer.

Make yourself pay for this nightmare you have wrought upon yourself.

What if, on the day I popped my first razorblade out of my cheapo disposable razor and pressed it to my skin, someone had told me that I was stronger?

I'm better than this.

Every 18 minutes, an American claims their own life.
Every day, eighty.
So. Many. Lives.
More than half were teens.
So. Young.

A percentage of those were 'cutters'.

Cutting is not a culture, or a way of life.
It is a way to release what hasn't been said.

I AM stronger.

I know that now.

I will not be one in eighty.
I refuse to be reduced to a mere statistic.

Each of those eighty had lives.
They had family who loved them and cared about them.
They might have, if they looked hard enough, even had friends.

Next time you make fun of an 'emo', think about that.

Perhaps they needed a reminder that they too, were stronger.

I am Stronger.