"Family History"

I remember the first time I showed my parents a story I had written. Here I was, an 11-year-old, struggling with the complexities of life and adult relationships, translating all my encounters of the hellish reality, into the decent draperies of fiction. My mother said I had a future writing soap operas, my father just laughed.

The first time I wrote a poem, which was when I was 11 and a half, I asked my mother if I could read it to her. She just smiled and said it was very good as though she hadn't really heard. When I went to show my father, we just had a fight about something trivial and I cried for the rest of the night because he was too busy to read what I had written.

The the first time I burnt myself I was 12. I wrote about it and why I did it. All the turbulent adolescent emotions centered around leaving my old school, my best friend and the only boy I ever loved (although I didn't know I loved him then) were recorded on the pages of the diary I never left open on the bed, hoping my parents would see.

The first time I wrote a poem that rhymed, I was in my first year of high school. I was 12, living in a post 9/11 world, or whatever the media went on with. I wrote a poem called "Twin Towers" (on fictiopress under my Daredee account, which I no longer use). My mother listened and didn't believe that I'd written it, she thought I was joking, it was "too good" to be my work. My father said one line needed fewer syllables. I informed of a concept known as poetic license. He said he didn't like poetry much.

The first time I wrote a poem about suicide, I was 12 and half. I didn't show my parents. Dad doesn't like poetry and my mother thinks making words rhyme is beyond my capability.

The first time I cut myself was the day after my 13th birthday. I didn't have a knife, or a razor blade, so I used a pair of scissors. I never made glaring, slashing, look-at-me-I-want-attention cuts, people who do that really annoy me, but they bled enough though. The original draft of "Privileged Life" has bloodstains all over it. But my parents didn't notice the scars.

I don't tell my parents about the "firsts" in my life anymore. They're much too busy to care. Tonight is the first night I'll go to bed with bleeding wrists, and if tomorrow is the first morning I never wake, I don't think they'll notice.