Trigger warning: Though there aren't any graphic images, this article does contain content about self-harming, depression, and other emotional struggles that could trigger others.

I wasn't always the person I am today. I wasn't always content, strong, passionate. I wasn't a person the eight-year-old version of myself would want to associate with nor be proud of. I don't remember when I first started to notice the hatred mixing with the blood in my veins, but I know by the time I had realized it, it was too late.

I was thirteen when I first started self-harming. The months leading up to the first time I ever cut, I would trace the edges of scissors with my finger tips, hold the blades up to my wrist, but I never broke skin. When I finally rummaged through the bathroom cabinet to find the opened package of razors and ran it across my wrist, I thought I was being courageous.

But cutting isn't synonymous with courage. It was, in it's own sense, cowardly.

It was only a few months later, when my mother noticed the cuts on my wrist, poolside... on Father's Day. There were a lot of tears, confusion, a deep rivet in my heart -- a brokenness that I'd lead them to believe it was their fault. It's not your fault; it never was. I promised them I would stop, but I couldn't. I didn't know how to. I didn't want to. I started cutting places people wouldn't notice: my upper thighs, my waist. The angrier and sadder I was, the more intense the impulse, the more pressure I'd apply, the more scattered cuts would be. I began to get more creative. I'd take tacks and trace them over the fair skin of my wrist, just enough to hurt but not make a mark. I'd burn my waist with my flat iron or curling iron. I'd use the physical pain to match the internal pain I felt.

I struggled with accepting myself. I didn't love myself in any sense of the word. I couldn't stand the reflection staring back at me in mirrored surfaces. I was embarrassed of my awkward brace-face, annoyed by the gross sound of my laugh, and wished I was more like-able.

It was so much more than having an unattractive perception of myself. It wasn't the braces nor the glasses that I despised so much. It wasn't the acne speckled across my preteen, embarrassed face and it wasn't the split ends fraying at the end of my long hair splayed down my back. It was more than my body; it was my mind. It was something much deeper -- it was rooted in my core, a seed planted by a single idea and left to flourish and nourish with endless negativity.

I thought my self-hatred was like benign tumor fed from the ignorance of preteen boys, being awkward and nerdy, and the fact all my friends had kissed a boy and I hadn't. I thought my self-hatred was a product of vanity, of shallow and materialistic principles that had manifested and grown out of control like the weeds of an abandoned home.

It wasn't until I exchanged contacts for glasses, the metal train tracks were removed from my teeth, and my pizza face had cleared into a normal complexion, I realized the hatred I had been feeling throughout middle school had matured into a monster I felt I had no control over.

The worst part was I knew how fortunate and lucky I was, but I couldn't halt the melancholy coating my lungs and the bleakness filling my heart. I had a family that loved me; they never made me feel unloved. I had a roof over my head, a good education, opportunities to snatch at the taking, and parents who did everything in their power to provide for me.

Still, it wasn't enough to keep my soul satisfied. I felt shackled by my insecurities and longings. I was entranced, and even mildly obsessed, with being close to 100 pounds and a size 0. My eye color was lame and boring and I was deeply envious of the gorgeous blue eyes two of my brothers possessed. I wanted to know why all the boys I liked never liked me. I was frustrated that I had a small bust while girls younger than me had cleavage. I was mad I wasn't taller, prettier, thinner. I was mad boys didn't think I was desirable.

But most of all, I was mad these things angered me. I knew they shouldn't, but they did and my brain didn't know how to shut off the disabling thoughts running rampant in my brain. Maybe it didn't want to.

So... what changed?

I wasn't exactly the happiest ray of sunshine in high school, but I also wasn't completely absorbed by a vortex. When I look back at pictures from high school, I can't pinpoint my feelings. Everything seems jumbled up into a blur. I remember tear-soaked pillow cases, crying without a reason. I remember balled up tissues in the palm of my fists, trying to stifle soft sobs so I wouldn't cause a commotion because I didn't know why I was really sad in the first place. I remember listening to The Fray on repeat because their music was the only thing I could relate to at 2 AM when even the creaky floorboards of my house were asleep.

I remember smiles and laughs and all the personal victories I had in high school, but I also remember all the secret sadness I was desperate to hide; maybe if it was hidden, it'd get tired of me and disappear. It didn't though, and it always quietly existed beside me as comfortably as my own shadow.

Some people ask why I cut, and there's never really one answer. Sometimes I cut to match the internal pain I felt inside. Sometimes it was out of an unnecessary and obnoxious amount of guilt my conscious couldn't handle. Sometimes I valued it as a form of punishment. The reason didn't matter though, it was the action itself spoke so many volumes. I was in pain -- that was really the only reason.

Throughout the pain I was trying desperately to control, I also simultaneously started accepting myself. I struggled with my body, but I tried to appreciate it for the incredible vessel it was. I was bothered by the fact boys didn't want me, but I also took into perspective the type of guys I was also looking at. Slowly, I began appreciating myself for the strengths and good qualities I had acquired such as my love for writing and my athletic ability.

The greatest amount of growth I've had thus far has been within the past year, largely more so within the past six months. My sophomore year of college was hands-down one of the most emotionally-trying and complicated years for me. I was going through an emotional hell but I didn't want to confront it. I was broken in every sense of the word, but when I emerged from the catastrophe, I saw myself in a new light.

Today, I like the way I look and the person I am. I'm proud of my ability to voice my opinions and articulate them in a way people can appreciate and challenge. I don't feel guilty for having tattoos, dying my hair blonde, or constantly changing my style. I'm not ashamed of the person I am today. It wasn't something that occurred overnight, but as I taught myself to enjoy my own company, I learned to actually appreciate and love myself. I see my scars as battle wounds in a war against myself. Most scars are invisible to the eye, but I know exactly where they are.

People are surprised to find out "a girl like me" would have struggled with self-harm. What does that mean? Someone who's perceived as bubbly, friendly maybe, someone who's happy can't have personal struggles? Are all people who self-harm painted black, like a picture of emo girls who listen to Panic! At The Disco too much and idolize Paramore? Self-harm is real and exists outside of stereotypes.

Maybe it's a good thing I appear so happy. I wouldn't be so happy with my life if I didn't see the darkness -- you can't see light without visiting the dark.

The last time I cut I was seventeen. It's been over three full years. It is possible to overcome your demons and throw away the blades.

Razor blades will never be just razor blades; they will always have hidden context attached to them besides the one accompanied with a loofah and shaving cream. They're flirtatious; silver and tantalizing, whispering we can make you feel better. But their taunts sound like the voice of the devil and I no longer succumb to that kind of evil. I see razor blades and think of pain, think of fleeting comfort which once it subsides turns into a throbbing, ebbing guilt -- a guilt so loud it pulses in your temples. Razor blades still speak to me; I choose not to listen.

Sometimes it's hard to recognize the person I once was because she's not the person I am today, but in order to appreciate who I am today, I have to respect the girl I once was. Without her struggle, I couldn't be confident today. I couldn't be happy and content with my life and appreciate it as it is for what it is.

Thank you to everyone who has stood by my side during this journey. Thank you for holding my hands and my heart. Thank you for patience and limitless love.