Allison Marshall

On January 1 st , 2012, I wrote this in my journal: “I almost want to lash out, to name someone who has made me feel hopeless or inadequate and somehow manage to spit venom in their face with my final breath. But there’s no use. I know there is no one to hurt, no one to blame more than myself.” Then I locked myself in the bathroom, and raked a razor across my wrist. But the blade was blunt. I failed to even seriously injure myself. I threw the razor in the bathtub, collapsed on my bed, and cried for the rest of the afternoon. The first psychologist I tried to see kept asking, “Well , what happened? What happened to make you feel this way? Was it your sister getting engaged? Did a boyfriend break up with you? Do you have an eating disorder? What happened? ” I don’t know. I can come up with a thousand reasons and none at all. At the time, it felt like I had always been falling. All my memories were filtered through a glass of despair. It’s been eight years, but