It was just a thought.

My soft voice cried out in earnest to the dark, empty room. Tears flooded my eyes and spilled over, soaking my cheeks. My cries were met with shouts of silence. I rolled over in my bed and faced the wall though I saw nothing. Blackness was all around me, drowning me in nothingness. Water poured out of my eyes as I squeezed them shut. "God," I whispered. "Please don't let me get hurt again. My heart has been beaten, broken, bashed up and bruised. I've done my best to patch it back up but it's hanging on by a thread. I'm afraid that one more thing will just unravel it completely. Please, God. Don't let me get hurt again." God kept quiet as I buried my face in my pillow, muffling the loud sobs I couldn't control. At age 10, I didn't think that I could handle another painful experience. Already in my life, I had experienced pain that most 5th graders couldn't even dream up. Loneliness had become my inseparable companion. Depression had it's foothold on me and pain was a feeling I felt every second. Questions raced through my mind every day, searching for answers and only finding more questions. Guilt loomed over me, watching me, taunting me. Reminding me of things I just wanted to forget. The idea of living 80 more years was one I couldn't even think of. I think, deep down, I never expected to get far in life. Some people were meant to die young and something in me told me that I was one of those people. My left arm screamed in pain. I ran my right index finger down my arm and felt rows and rows of raised welts covering my inner and outer arm. I promised God that would be the last night I ever destroyed my body. I never in a million years would have imagined that that was just the beginning.