I wanted to hurt myself. That all-too familiar desire welled up in me, that feeling I couldn’t even explain. My fingers instinctively reached for my arm, ready to tear at my skin. Pain, pain, all I wanted, all I needed, was to feel some pain right now. No, not just pain – pain that I could control. Not the pain caused by the reality of my parents break up, not the pain from looking at my cat, jerking, bleeding, dying on the side of the road. I had to be in control of the pain, because then it blanked everything else out.

But in that instant, right when everything was about to fall apart, when I was about to break the promise I’d made to myself not to start the downward spiral of self-injury… I remembered. In a second that seemed to last a minute, I saw their faces. The people who knew about my struggle, but still love me and believe in me. The people who were praying for me, who were praying that when this moment came I would find the strength to stop.

I clenched my hand into a fist, and let it limply fall to my side. No. Not this time.

“Get the hell out of my head,” I mumbled out of my breath, directing it at the demons gleefully waiting for my downfall.

Because, I realized, this was the ultimate form of control. Not hurting myself—that was just a lie disguised to look like control. Refusing to listen to my demons, refusing to do what they wanted… that was control.

And that was what I needed more than anything.