Marked by Anger
When I was 14, I started doing something I never thought I would do. I'd heard so many stories, and seen so many scars from people who cut themselves to relieve their pain. And at some point, I thought it could help me too. I have always had a bad relationship with my mother. I always felt neglected, and un-loved. And after a while, I realized I was angry at her. I wanted to make her suffer. And as I thought then, the best way to do it, was to hurt myself.
I never really intended to hurt myself severely. And I was lucky, I never really did. It started about a week after I saw a friend who had cut herself on the arm with pieces of a broken plate. Everybody told her to stop but all she said was that it helped her deal with her depression. To be honest, I thought she was pathetic. "Your pain won't go away if you hurt yourself", I said. But it apparently helped her. After that I started thinking about it, more and more.
I wasn't depressed. I wasn't sad. I wasn't even really unhappy. But there was always this seething feeling deep inside of me, that never could find away to come out. I realized it was anger. I was angry. Not the normal teen-rebel anger that a lot of people have against the parents. My mother wasn't mean. I could do most things other kids weren't allowed to. Stay out late, get piercings, and stuff like that. So basically, I took care of myself. And since I hadn't seen my father in over five years, he was no one to turn to.
So one day, I was sitting in my room. I just had a fight with my mom, and I was so angry that I cried. And I hadn't cried for two years. So I got out this pocketknife. But, stupidly enough, I didn't use the knife, which would have been bad too, but what I did was worse. I used some sort of corkscrew, that was broken. So there was only this sharp edge left. I sat there and looked at it for a while. Then I put it against the skin of my arm, and with a swift movement I scratched my skin. The scar was very thin, and almost didn't bleed at all. But it was this beautiful, thin, crimson line... and I suddenly wanted more. I think I did about 7 or 10 of these, and then I suddenly felt pleased. I wasn't angry anymore. So I cleaned up the small wounds, and put a bandage over them. I didn't say anything, and nobody asked.
I did this for a couple of weeks. Every time I got angry, I scratched these small lines into my skin. Always the same place, the inside of my left underarm. The wounds turned to thin scabs, and as soon as they did, I scratched new ones.
But one day, something happened that made me swear to myself that I would never do it again. I never really pushed the edge into my skin. The cuts were always shallow. But this time, I wanted more blood. So I pushed, and quickly pulled it over my skin. It took my a while to realize what had happened. I looked at my arm, and there was a quite deep scar, maybe 4-5 millimeters, and it started to bleed a lot. I could even see some kind of yellow tissue under the blood. I panicked. I ran into the bathroom, pushed paper against it, got band-aids and a bandage. My mother and my oldest brother looked strangely at me when I ran in and out of the kitchen, but as always, didn't ask. So I rinsed the wound with cold water, and held my arm high. I dabbed it with some antiseptic stuff, too. I was strange, when I did the cut, I couldn't feel a thing. But now it was stinging like hell. So after about thirty minutes the bleeding stopped a bit. Or at least enough for me to be able to push the edges of the wound together, and use surgical-tape to cover it.
The weeks after that I was really uptight about my arm. I never put a lot of weight on it, and slept with a pillow underneath it so that it would be in a high position. After about three or four weeks I took the tape off the wound. I looked nice, there was only a really small section that wasn't healed up. So I cleaned it again, put a fresh band-aid on, and waited again. After two/three weeks, it was completely healed. It was now a brightly pink scar, and it stood up quite much. But now, about a year and a half later, it's actually white. So that's what I'm left with. I'm literally marked by my anger. A big white scar, and several (now almost invisible) thin scars. I don't cut myself anymore. I never dared to show my mother my wounds anyway, so it really didn't matter to me. Actually, even to this day, nobody knows. I haven't told anybody personally, but a couple of people know I've done it.
I'm writing this story, because I want people to know two things:
People who cut don't always want attention
Cutting to take your pain away, might replace the pain with regret
A lot of people have been helped by their cutting. I was helped for the moment, then it only made things worse. A couple of time after this, I felt the urge to do it again, but the memories restrain me. I've found other ways to deal with things.
So be careful. And remember, no matter what you've been told, or what you believe, everybody is worth more that you could possibly imagine.
submitted by: Anonymous
on: 04 July 2005