by Jessi Robinson

In 1994, I was a high school freshman. My arms and wrists were covered in scratches and small cuts. I was convinced the world would be better off without me. I just wanted to go away, be alone, and not bother or be bothered by other people.

And then one day I was called out of class to be confronted by the adjustment counselor and my parents, who whisked me off to my mom’s therapist to get some meds and therapy. My friends had noticed my behavior, arms, and the things I was saying. I was lucky. Continue reading →