Evolution of a cutter: From bad to worse to better

Filed under: Themes, Shoutout from the Cutting Edge 

Evolution of a cutter: From bad to worse to better

(My life from 2002-2007)

Submitted Anonymously

 

Early 2002

I lost myself five minutes ago. And got up from bed to wander and search for who I was. It turns out I was hiding under the bed with the dust bunnies and monsters of other people’s childhoods. Books and songs have been doing that to me lately, erasing me and drawing in stick figures, lonely, sad, cold. Something else, shadows, maybe, but not me. I wish I could escape the lethargy, the apathy, the emptiness.

I can understand why people feel the need to prove to themselves that they exist; to cut, to hurt, to feel anything at all, even if it’s only pain. I understand it, but I prefer to revel in the nothingness, the teenage angst, the dark headaches. To pretend it’s ok and smile, but never laugh.

 

Late 2002

It is strange how things begin. One day, a person is as ‘normal’ on the inside as they appear on the surface. The next, the everyday conversation and easy smiles are simply a cover, a mask of normalcy, allowing a person to live as before, despite the introduction of an entirely new, strange behaviour. With me, the change seemed to be abrupt, but looking back, it may have been sneaking up on me for several weeks.

Yesterday, I went to a movie with my best friend, something I’ve done a million times. This time though, the skin on my thighs was pulled by surgical tape and gauze as I sat down. When she got scared and grabbed at my leg, I winced at the possibility of discovery. It’s too early, I realized. It’s too soon. I don’t want help yet. We talked, we giggled, we did what we always do, and there is no way that she even suspects that I’m falling into a pit of darkness.

Right now, I can still see light. After watching the dark red contrasting so intensely against the white of my skin, I become euphoric. My heart beats faster, my fingers tingle. I laugh. What I did, what I will do again, amazes me. How can I do this to myself? And yet, after the first time, I found myself thinking about doing it again. My right thigh would tingle, seemingly jealous of my left and wanting to share in the (art?) of it all. And so, after a forced day’s grace (which was hard), my right leg too was initiated, and will eventually bear the scars of my poor-man’s therapy.

At least I’m careful though, and never allow the exhilaration to take over. I don’t go too deep, I disinfect, I bandage and protect. Still, it has only been a few days, and the urge to release tension and create order is a little stronger today than it was yesterday. I half hope that the start of school and routine will snap me out of this, but I also look in doubt at the day when I will stop. I like it. I like doing it. As long as it doesn’t interfere with living, I welcome my new, strange behaviour with open arms, and will continue to wear my mask for as long as I am able.

______________________________________________________

 

superficial

like my wounds

like my heart

splitting skin

parting like lips

that have more to say

than I do

rich colour building

dripping

staining

I love it

all of it

the contrast

the order

the release

don’t ask me to stop

I can’t, not yet

I don’t want to

I’m not sick

I promise.

Just weak, maybe

or tired

or bored?

no. Just superficial

like my wounds

______________________________________________________

Early 2003

I went on a date last night. And as I crossed my legs at the table, in the soft-lit restaurant, my jeans got stuck to my skin. And when I looked down, there was a row of dark lines along the thigh of my pants. My bandage had slipped, and the blood had seeped through. I looked up, smiled at my date, and started a story, gesturing wildly…and knocked a glass of wine onto my lap.

 

In the bathroom, thanking god for having ordered red wine, I couldn’t help but be amazed at myself. At how quickly I’ve become accustomed to lying. At how normal I could act, two hours after having carved a new roadmap of numbness onto my thigh. At how much fun I could have flirting despite the growing necrosis of my soul.

______________________________________________________

 

Hurt me.

More than I hurt myself.

I dare you.

Can’t?

Didn’t think you could.

I’m safe now.

You should see it,

the dark, the light, mixing.

Release is not a four letter

word.

Release me. See me. Hear what I don’t have to say.

It’s nothing I haven’t said before.

Get it?

No? I see the smirk.

Goddamn that smirk.

I hate that smirk.

Sometimes it comes down

to the difference between a twisted smile and a drop of

blood?

sweat?

cum?

You chose. I’m going to bed.

______________________________________________________

 

I keep the old Kleenex that I’ve used to soak up the blood. I don’t know why. I like the patterns. There’s something that is so honestly sick about hoarding old, bloody tissues. Maybe the only honest part about this. I also like to pick at my scabs, so they don’t heal too fast. And so the scars are more likely to be hypertrophic when they do heal. I like them bumpy, I’m not sure why. I guess these are small ways to avoid cutting again (and again and again). It is getting out of my control. The need is too strong. I can’t sleep unless I cut first. I can’t go out with my friends unless I cut first. When I don’t cut, I eat too much, I stay in bed, I hate myself. A red sign at a bus stop is enough to trigger me. I’ve started using knives, scissors, whenever I don’t have my sterile scalpels with me. I’m not being safe anymore. I know better than this, but I can’t stop. The other day, I made two parallel cuts and then skinned myself in between. I didn’t feel it at all. What a weird, out-of-control way to retain control. I am starting to get scared.

______________________________________________________

 

lacerate

a word that trips off the tongue

and brings a shaky kind of joy

into the hearts of those who hear it

well, when people like me hear it

people like me

i can’t seem to get enough

i am spreading out

my ankles, my feet, my arms

my thighs got lonely

i am lonely

i am hypnotized by red and white

by dripping and swelling and staining

by crimson joy and metallic therapy

i am getting scared that i can’t stop

i am scared

i can’t stop

______________________________________________________

 

Late 2003

I told the world today. By that I mean my family. And we decided I should get help. By that I mean I decided I should get help.

______________________________________________________

Self-destructive behaviour is learned

they said

as they poked and prodded

my brain

vain attempts at understanding what

even I

do not understand

it’s not that I want to

fail or hurt or cry

it’s just that it’s easier to

fail or hurt or cry

sometimes smiling costs too much

sometimes darkness is more comforting

than light

sometimes I feel safest when I am in the most peril

______________________________________________________

 

Fight it. Fight it. Fight it. Fight.

______________________________________________________

 

I draw a line in red marker

and watch for the flow

that never comes

I pick at my fingers

and wait for the relief

that never comes

I read a book, watch a movie, talk to friends

and wait for the rush

that never comes

There are lists

out there

of up to a thousand and one things to do

instead of cutting

I’ve done them all

weeks have passed

and I’ve been ‘good’.

I want to cut

I want the flow

the relief

the rush

Maybe I will, maybe I won’t

I hope they all understand

now that they’ve seen the scars

But they won’t

because they think I’ve kicked it

because they simplify it, don’t get it

because they’re so relieved it’s over

It’s not over

and I’m sorry.

______________________________________________________

 

In therapy, they like to say that it’s going to get worse before it gets better. It’s one of those things that everyone says…and that I didn’t really believe until now. But it’s true. I feel like I’ve been gutted from the inside, and my therapist has removed from reach the only tools I have to sew myself back up. I’m exposed, naked, bleeding from my heart and my soul and my mind…but not bleeding from my skin. I guess that’s a success for her. I am digging up the reasons behind my cutting, the suppressed feelings of anger, sadness, helplessness…the need for control, the compulsion to be perfect, robotically happy on the outside. My emotions, finally stirred up from the depths, are now out of control. I scream, I cry, I throw things in fits of rage. My reactions are out of proportion to the crimes around me. But then again, I am unleashing over 20 years of repressed pain. And I am doing all of these things while not cutting. Well…almost not cutting. I am still, shamefully and guiltily, carving out moments of peace in between my toes…hidden from the prying eyes that give me body checks now and then. But it is less, and shallow, a dose of Splenda to satisfy my sugar cravings. And I am no longer stumbling through the dark…a small spark, a firefly, is leading me forward.

______________________________________________________

 

2004

There is a snake

Struggling its way through my stomach

Trying to twist and turn enough

To make me bend over in pain

There is also a rat

Chewing away slowly at my brain

Pawing around in my grey matter

Making my head ache indefinitely

There are hundreds of flies

Buzzing through the muscles in my legs

Laying eggs growing into maggots

That cause cramps up to my thighs

There is even an eel

Swimming through the caverns of my heart

Producing electric shocks that keep me alive

But cause my heart to contract in pain

My body has been taken over

By an ark of slithering, gnawing, diseased fauna

Alone, one by one, they are a nuisance I’d be glad to get rid of

Together, they are an army slowly winning the war

But there is also a manatee

Floating gracefully through the waters of my soul

Bending its body to the motion of rolling white topped waves

Generating peace amidst the storm

______________________________________________________

 

I feel like cutting.

Instead of doing that, I’m going to write out why. That way, I am acknowledging the bad feelings, instead of masking them.

I am angry.

I am hurt.

I am feeling trapped and out of control. I am not going to cut, I am going to call the person who has made me feel this way and talk it out.

Because it’s okay to talk it out. Because he will still love me. In fact, he will love me more for loving myself enough to talk.

I will not cut.

I did not cut.

I no longer want to cut.

Victory.

______________________________________________________

 

Update 2007

The other day, I had a fight with my boyfriend. It was one of those rip-your-own-hair-out fights that can make or break a relationship. And there were many many times during that fight when I hated myself almost as much as I hated him. There were moments when I thought it would be better if I could momentarily cease to exist. There were many long hours when I wanted to sleep or eat or cry. And at one point during the fight, I locked myself in the bathroom. To cry in peace. To get away from him for a little while. To calm down. And my partner, the man who has been with me for years now, and who has walked along the path of my recovery (and held me up a lot of the time so I could keep walking), swallowed his anger and knocked on the door…

“Babe, are you ok…are you thinking about cutting?”

And that’s when it happened. The blinding epiphany. The moment of clarity.

“No.”

No, absolutely not. It hadn’t even crossed my mind. I was in the midst of a total and complete emotional crisis, and no part of me even considered cutting.

And we made up, and we’re still together, and we’re happier than we’ve ever been (because someone brilliant and insightful once said: “And thank you especially for the dark years” which allow me to appreciate the light).

Now, during the stressful times or the intense times or the sad times, I tend to look at the scars on my legs. Sometimes I run my fingers along the ones that are still obvious and bumpy. And I actually smile, because they show me how far I’ve come. And it makes me peaceful to see the roadmap of my past pain and realize that, like my scars, I’ve finally healed.

Permalink / Comment