Breaking into my own house

Once I started high school, I took the bus home in the afternoon. The house I lived in was never locked, but for some reason I liked to "break in" through my bedroom window. I would pop the latch off with a gentle tap of the wrist, slide it open, and crawl through. One day, instead of popping the latch, the glass gave way and shattered all over my wrist. I rushed to the back door like a normal person, and got somebody to take me to the hospital.

Now, that bedroom window was a fairly high traffic spot. When the kids on my street wanted to hang out, they didn't knock on my door, they just came up to the window. One kid had dad who installed windows for a living, and shortly after I broke the thing they dropped by the window together to do an estimate. Thing was, I was beating off. I had my little television on and Madonna was doing some sexy shit on MTV and I was going to town and then I hear the bushes rustle and there's little Stephen and some old guy. With the angle they had, I don't think they saw what I was doing. They sure didn't act like they did. They just said "hi" and looked at the window pane. I did my best to play like I was just hanging out, not masturbating. I could feel the blood in my cheeks. Eventually, they went away.

A few years later, when mental illness was fashionable, I would lie that the ugly scar on my wrist was from a suicide attempt.