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Cutting

I tend to think of myself as a "normal" person on the surface. I attend a highly respected university, I'm involved in countless community service organizations, I have friends, and I make the Dean's list every semester. I'm not saying these things because I want to brag; actually it is for the exact opposite reason. I merely want to be understood.

Ritual cutting has evolved over the years into a coping mechanism that allows me to function daily and yet it is so much more.  It is my dirty little secret.  It is my addiction.  It is my love.  It is my phantasmagorical escape.  It is like my oxygen.  It is my best friend.  After a long day of classes, meetings, and study sessions I just want to unload, I want someone to unload on.  Instead of taking it out on others I channel it through my ritualistic obsession with cutting.

My infatuation started so innocently.  I remember staring at the tiny droplet of blood coagulating on my finger in school.  I had gotten a deep paper cut in "Basic Concepts of Visual Art I."  I was absolutely mesmerized, I couldn't look away.  When the droplet finally rolled down my finger and fell to the floor it was as if the spell it had over me was shattered into a million pieces.  The calm had broken and I wanted more.  I was frantic, I needed it.  I was addicted.

I went through the rest of the school day as my normal shy, attentive self but inside my mind was racing.  I couldn't wait until I got home.  I asked to be excused from my algebra class so I could use the restroom.

Once I got out of the classroom I had to keep myself in check because I wanted to run down the hall to the bathroom, find an empty stall, and bleed. I wanted to see crimson on those ivory porcelain tiles. My veins were screaming for sweet release, blissful pain, the gush of sticky-sugary freedom. I had to find something sharp. I dumped my purse hysterically on the floor, searching for something, anything that would break my pristine skin.

Treacherous tears threatened to spill from my eyes as I sifted through the contents of my purse on the sickeningly clean floor. At least I knew whatever I found to injure myself with would be clean. Lip gloss... Money... ID card... Cell phone... Pressed powder compact... Wait a compact! I looked at it, worshiping it. How to get the mirror out of it, though? I decided to wave vanity good bye as I smashed the compact on the floor desperately. I had to get that mirror to break. After several minutes and countless attempts it sprang free in several pieces.

I picked up the largest fragment hastily and harshly, causing my fragile skin to show its crimson interior. I didn't care and I didn't make a sound in protest. Without a second thought I removed my jeans and sat down on the toilet. I thrust the jagged piece of glass into my upper thigh and gasped at the intense rush of emotion, excitement, and release, causing the implement to slide in close to half an inch. Blood was dripping everywhere, covering the floor, my hands, my jeans, and the shattered mirror. I twisted the glass that was inside of me, my yearning for more pain over took me.

When my hunger subsided I surveyed the damage I had inflicted on myself. How was I going to explain this? There was blood everywhere, including my jeans. Oh God, I've been in the bathroom for close to half an hour. My class was long over and all of my books were still in the classroom. The only thing that I could think of was to text message my best friend, tell her I had just gotten my period and stained my jeans. She was in the middle of class so I could only hope that she would get it. I asked that she bring my gym pants from my locked as quickly as she could. I wiped up the remnants of my first cutting session and waited. An hour passed and eventually she showed up. I had to serve a detention for "cutting class." As soon as I got home I stole as many sharp things from around the house as I could.

Over the years I've wondered how my life would be different if I had fought the urge that day and I had never fallen into my obsession with blood, pain, and release. The thought is fleeting because my addiction washes over me and I know I could never live my life any other way. Needless to say, I never look back for very long because I end up running head on into the memories of my addiction, causing my to come hurtling back to the present with a hunger burning deep within me that can only be satisfied in the most delicious of ways...

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submitted by: Anonymous
on: 12 Dec. 2005
in Ritual

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