"So, how was school?" Rachel asks me.

"It was okay." That's not entirely a lie. I shouldn't have just said okay, now she's gonna wanna know why it was okay. I don't want to tell her what happened this morning. I don't want to ever talk or think about that again.

"Just okay?" She asks like I knew she would.

"Yes."

"Well, if there's nothing more to tell, there nothing more to tell, she says. I wasn't expecting that. Today, I want to go back a few years. If I'm going to save you, I need to know from what. I want to talk about your first time".

" Uhhh... I haven't." my voice is low. I can feel my face getting hot.

" Oh no, I meant the first time you cut. she corrects herself. You were thirteen, right?"

" Isn't that in my files? I remember being asked this question at ASC."

"Yes, but I threw your files away. I want a new answer from you. Why did you first cut? How did it feel? How--" I cut her off before she can ask another question.

"I don't know. I don't remember. That was five years ago."

" Oh, come on." she narrows her eyes at me. " You're telling me you don't remember your first cut. You don't remember how the knife felt in your hands? How it slashed straight through your skin? The tingling feeling you felt go through your body."

" I do," I say. No one ever forgets how their first cut; you may not remember why you did it, but you will remember how it felt. No one forgets their first high.

" So tell me about it. I won't judge you, Jayda. I just want to talk. You can trust me." The blue-eyed woman looks at me, and I feel like I can trust her for some reason.

What do I have to lose? "The first time I cut, I was thirteen, I was home alone. My dad was somewhere across the world trying to close a deal; he was getting a shipment of 'ten new luxurious cars for his dealerships." I say the word with fake enthusiasm. "My mom was out of town working on a case. I pause, trying to remember exactly what happened. I don't really remember what led up to me cutting that night; all of it is just a blur, really. I was home alone, and I felt like I had no one; I felt nothing. I cut not to kill myself but just to feel something, anything." I explain. "I felt empty, numb, and cutting made me feel something. It made me feel happy." I know I must sound crazy. I'm staring at the floor, scared to look up.

She probably wants to call my parents and tell them to lock me back up in the crazy house and throw away the key.

"Jayda, everything you felt while cutting is totally normal." She says.

I look at her, confused, "Normal?" I repeat. I've never had a doctor refer to my cutting as normal.

"Maybe I should elaborate. It doesn't make you crazy just because you enjoy harming yourself. Cutting releases endorphins into your brain, which is the reason you are happy after you do it."

"So if its the only way I can be happy if it's the only thing that makes me happy, why can't I do it?" My words come out shaky.

"Jayda, cutting won't make you happy. When a substance abuser indulges in alcohol or heroin, meth, marijuana, they do it because they like how it makes them feel," she explains something I already know. "Some feel alive; some forget about their problems; people love the way it makes them feel. Granted, these feelings and emotions are very much real. But when they come down off that high, theyre back to square one; that is how they become an abuser, and that's how they become addicted to it."

"But that's not cutting?" I try to defend my habit.

"It's the same. Cutting is a drug. When you cut, you're happy; youre on a high, you feel nothing, nothing at all, endorphins are being realized into your brain just like a drug. When the feeling is gone, when the pain is no longer there, and youre back to reality, are you happy or back to sad?"

"Sad." I honestly admit.

"So now that you're back off of that high, what are you doing? You're looking for your next fix, something stronger, something longer. Just cutting isn't enough anymore; you realized that, so you did something about it. You cut deeper. You realized that the only way to be happy permanently was to end your life. she pauses. Am I wrong?"

"No." I lower my head. I feel ashamed. It's like she can read my thoughts like she's in my head.