I guess I would call myself a "cutter." It is an emotional thing. I do it for many reasons. I need it to feel, to know I'm alive. Pain is the last resort, and it is wonderful. After awhile, you get used to it. Instead of crying or taking drugs, you cut your flesh open. You let out the hurt. I was scared at first. I was feeling so horrible about one thing or another. I needed to let out the pain. I used a saftey pin to trace two small lines in my arm in the form of an "x". It felt good. I had needed to feel like I could control something in my life. I needed to hurt myself before anyone else could. When I am numb to the pain, I can continue my life. No one can hurt me. As time went on, I cut myself more, at any time of extreme pain or pleasure. I used razor blades and put the wounds in places where no one would see them. I made more intricate designs, and the cuts took longer. It is good to be able to concentrate on physical pain instead of emotional anguish.
I let the blood flow. I drink it, I write with it, or I just throw it all away. I have to let some of the pain out lest I explode. "And maybe this is a cry for help." No one knows I do it. I don't want people to worry about me. I don't think it is unhealthy. I do know that I keep getting closer to the vein. I don't think I have the right to take myself from the world, but sometimes I need this. I keep the blade in a tiny chest of drawers. I know that when I need it, it will be there. I take it out of its little cardboard wrapper, and I am ready to go. I try to think about the pain while I am cutting. I imagine the pain flowing out of me like so much red liquid. I watch it cascade down my pale white skin like a waterfall of viscera, so beautiful and pure. It stains my clothes, my skin, my soul.
The scars, although they heal quickly, can still be seen forever. I remember each one. I remember the feelings, the pain, the ecstacy that went into it. I remember that I can never go back to that person, or never say that, or never feel that, or never let myself hurt. I am as numb as I can be now. I can't let anything in. As long as I still feel, I know I will still have to cut. I know I will still have to let the pain out or else I will explode. "In ancient times if you were sick they made you bleed." And I am sick. I am so fucked up. No one can save me. But I know it will be ok. Once I made a pattern as a tribute to Nine Inch Nails and a specifically abusive relationship I was in. As I cut, I thought of the words "and what you gave to me, my perfect ring of scars. You know I can see what you really are." I made a circle with an eye in the center. I wrote out the lyrics to "Hurt" in red red krovy. Sometimes I pierce myself too. Usually my ear lobes. It is just another way to be in control. Another outlet for my hate and pain. Another way to let it all flow out. I keep the holes in, capped with silver. They are reminders too. My scars are gateways to my soul. Sometimes I am afraid of what will come out. One day it may not be red blood. Perhaps it will be pieces of my black heard. Maybe bats or spiders or snakes. take my cancer take my disease take my scars take my soul take my pain You can not save me. I can't even save myself.
As I write about this experience my hands tingle. I know that next time someone or something hurts me, I will be able to hurt myself again. The pain is comfortable now. Like an old friend, always there when I need it. My stomach is already filled up with scars. I need to start on my upper legs and they will keep migrating until I am a bloody mass. Or maybe I already am. I don't like to be abused. I don't like it when people hurt me. I don't want this forever. Someday it will be better. Someday when I don't hurt so much. Someday when life is easier. Someday it will be ok. And that someday may never come, but I will be waiting, waiting with my razor blade in its drawer.
submitted by: Anonymous
on: 25 Jan. 2001