The incident was hidden from everyone around me. The scrape wasn't large enough to cause anyone alarm, so I didn't have to hide it. But whenever I felt sad, I'd look down at the shallow battle scar and smile to myself.
Maybe I'd found something that would bring me relief.
My second self-harm encounter happened on a bad, bad day. I was feeling immensely overshadowed by my sister. It seemed as though all my friends were flocking to her and leaving me behind. For half the day, I trudged through it all, bravely holding my head high.
But at one point, it got to be too much. Completely broken down, I reached under my sleeve and scratched my arm with my sharpest fingernail until the skin welted up. I hadn't drawn blood, but I was satisfied.
And for the rest of the day, whenever I felt discouraged, I only had to look at the twin scars on my arm to feel better.