A memorable cut of life
As a sixteen year old I was fascinated with cutting myself. Many of the scars that I gave myself were hidden under pants or long sleeved shirts. I was terrified that one of my friends, or even worse, a parent might find out that I was doing this to myself. Eventually my parents did find out, and there was hell to pay. They took me to all of the best doctors and psychiatrists. I was on antidepressants, anti-anxiety meds, and sleeping pills...searching for a cure. Yet, no way to live.
I had never heard of anyone wanting to hurt themselves on purpose, or actually deriving pleasure from pain. Looking back, I realize that I was an extremely naive (and overly medicated) girl.
I was scared and embarrassed of my internal pain, and the physical pain that I created for myself. I am now 24 years old, un-medicated, and I still cut. However, there are different reasons for my cutting today. Rather than surfacing my inner pain, I am now claiming my individuality through my cuts.
I have many scars on my thighs, arms and hands. Some of my previous boyfriends and lovers have liked/tolerated them, some have not. I have always been very open about my cutting. I am not going to hide this part of myself from someone I care about. I figure that it is just who I am, and anyone who is with me must accept it.
A short detour: About two years ago, I met a man who had no desire to understand this side of me. He felt that it was his duty to cure me of this "tendency", as he called it. It goes without saying that our time together was brief. On the other hand, many men I have been with have accepted it, and even known other women cutters. I guess it is more common than I had originally thought.
Back to my story, cutting is something that I am equally afraid of and fascinated with. One recent cutting experience I will always remember.
Frustrated with life and all of its usual disappointments, I went home knowing that I was going to cut.
I pulled out my cutting bag and locked myself in the bathroom. Inside my bag I have a box of straight razors, band aids, antibiotic ointment, and a cleaning spray. I am very meticulous about my cutting ritual. All of the items in my bag are kept neat and orderly, and I keep it in my underwear drawer (a silly place to keep it, considering that is the first place anyone would look for "hidden" items...it is like hiding a Playboy from Mom by placing it under one's mattress).
Sitting on the bath mat with my back leaning against the tub, I pulled up my skirt and considered my upper thigh, looking for an unmarked area.
Typically the cuts that I give myself are straight and about three inches in length. My goal is to cut deep enough to draw blood. I like to draw blood so that it rolls down the side of my leg. This is my reward and relief. This time, I felt particularly anxious, and wanted to go further than I had ever gone before.
I decided to carve the word "Mine" into my upper thigh. This was to signify my freedom from anyone who might judge me. A statement that says "This is my body. Love it or leave it, I will not change for anyone but myself."
I pulled my skin taut (a trick I learned, to quickly get blood), and pulled the sharp razor down my thigh. When I cut, I play a silly game with myself. I push the razor down until I feel like I can't take anymore, and then I push a little harder. I cut a line down my thigh until I think I can't go any further, and then I go a little further. A thin white line appeared on my leg, and seconds later the line turned to a deep red. The satisfaction of blood was breathtaking. I felt a million sensations and emotions rushing through me at once which created a sense of serenity. I had gotten my high.
I finished the word on my thigh, and cleaned myself up with wads of tissue and antibiotic ointment. Throughout the week, whenever I bent my leg I could feel the stretch and sting of the cuts that I had made. A scratching against the interior of my jeans. A silent reminder of how far I can go and how strong I am. It is my secret. A secret that no one else needs to know.
Today, the scar is faint. The word "Mine" is just a whisper on my skin. A faint scar on the history of my body. Yet the significance in claiming myself as my own still lingers.
submitted by: Anonymous
on: 11 Feb. 2005