I think they're pretty, why can't you?
ication has been a topic of contension between me and my friends for the last 5 years or so. I'm into it, in a big way. Some of my friends have done it, but claim to have "grown out of it". Others just don't understand at all, and suggest that I need counselling. For the record, I do suffer from mild depression which I'm now on medication for and I'm feeling a lot better, but I still cut myself. At the end of the day I enjoy it, but I'm only just starting to admit it as I've always claimed to do it because I'm feeling really low. This particular experience happened at the end of last summer. I'd been out clubbing and run into the guy I was supposedly going out with. He decided to inform me that he'd got back with his ex-girlfriend a couple of nights before. Needless to say, I didn't take this too well. My friends kept me relatively calm in the club, making sure I always had a drink in front of me and a cigarette in my hand. They also stopped me scratching at my arm. This was the give away sign that I was going to pick up a blade when I got home, so my considerate (!) friends refused to leave me alone and hoped I'd just pass out when I got home rather than be capable of anything destructive. This clearly didn't work. When I got home I burst into tears, the full blown hysterical crying, and kept going for several hours. Eventually I decided I was going to have to cut myself if I stood any chance of stopping crying. Somehow the decision itself stopped the hysterical crying, reducing it to a gentle sob. I found a surgical blade and soaked it in antiseptic. Being at my parents' house meant that all the medical stuff, like bandages, were kept in their bedroom. This meant I'd have to improvise with whatever fabric I could find. I took the blade, antiseptic lotion and my makeshift bandages into the garden (I didn't want to get blood over anything in the house, there'd be too many questions), along with a bottle of Jack Daniels. After downing a large amount of the JD, I picked up the blade and got psyched up to slice into my arm. The first couple of cuts were pathetic, I was too scared to put enough pressure on the blade to cut deeply. Each cut got a little deeper, until I was slicing right into my arm leaving only a couple of layers of skin over the veins. As I was making each mark I pulled at the skin around it to open up the wound as much as possible so it would scar better. Watching the blood come out was amazing, there'd be a few seconds before the blood came out, which would give me time to look into each cut. The ones that went right over and so close to the big veins were the best. The veins were a really dark blue and I could see the blood pumpimg through them. I felt half cheated when the wound started to bleed and hid this sight. Stress released, I'd lost the urge to keep going. Wrapping my arm in the makeshift bandage, I went indoors, got my coat and set about trying to buy bandages or anything that would protect my new cuts. Trying to buy anything like that at four in the morning just isn't possible. And I found out that the all-night 7-11 doesn't sell anything medical, no plasters, no paracetamol, nothing. After trying all the places I could think of, I went home and managed to get to sleep without too much effort. The next couple of days were difficult, having to wear long sleeved tops in the summer raised a few eyebrows, but not too many because I burn really easily so most people accepted it. My mum took it quite badly when she saw it. I'd really wanted to keep it hidden from her, but she caught me by surprise when I was changing the dressing. She started to cry, told me it was mutilation, I was sick etc etc. I just went to pub and stayed there until it was safe to go home. My friends took it quite badly, they thought I didn't do it anymore. One of them gave me a bigger lecture than the one my mum gave me. I put up with it until he grabbed my arm and the scabs opened up, leaving me screaming in pain, and threatening to kill him if he did that again. Four months on and the scars are coming up nicely. A couple of them still have a strong red tint to them, they're the ones that attract people's attention, usually leading to a lecture or a concerned offer of help. I don't want help, not for this. I'm on anti-depressants, but they haven't stopped me wanting to cut myself. I love my scars, I think they're pretty and I want more, but I hate the reactions I get from people.
submitted by: Anonymous
on: 06 Dec. 2000