Looking at my scars always leave me in a dreamworld, reminiscing about my past, when I used to cut to make the pain go away.

The scars remind me of when I would choose a thin razor blade from my father's bathroom, and press it against my lily-white wrist. I would draw a straight line, careful not to hit any main veins.

The scars remind me of the sensations that traveled through my body; the adrenaline rush, pulsing through my veins, giving me a high more powerful than any drug could ever give.

They remind me of the feeling of being confident; as long as I had my razor, my day was not lead by dear. I could make it through the day. I would not care if another arrogant classmate from my school would scream out, "Hey, it's Olivia, the freak!", because minutes later, I would be drawing another line on my wrist, feeling the rush.

Yet, my scars also remind me of how I used to escape from reality, and deal with my problems in a way that nearly one day killed me.

My scars remind me of the day the doctor from the emergency room came up to me, after one bad accident with the razor. My mother and father were behind me, one hand on each of my shoulders, waiting for what the doctor would have to say. He said, "Olivia, you are lucky to be alive."

My scars remind me of new feelings that traveled through my body upon hearing those words. Feelings of thankfulness, and relief.

Most importantly, my scars remind me of how happy I am to be alive, and how much better my life is without cutting.