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Take My Pain Away.

For about 4 years, I've been cutting myself. I don't remember why I did it. It was kind of like my drug, my addiction. I needed something to keep me sane and alive. I never cut deep enough to break an artery, but there were times when I thought the blood would never cease. I guess I didn't really care if it did or not. In the fourth grade, I went through different transitions. I was near the end of the elementary school career and I transferred to a private school with a bunch of stuck up snobs. I felt so ostracized. At this point, I hadn't even had my ears pierced.

Anyway, I was just so angry that all this shit was happening so quickly. My parents had divorced just 1 and a half years prior and I was distraught. I didn't know how to cope with my life. I was just so angry. Depression was something that didn't leave me for years to come. It still hasn't. I was just enraged that my father would throw everything away for a barely legal whore.

I began to break away from my reality and read books all the time. Only two books still linger in my memory: Name Me Nobody and Cut. I guess that was where I found my inspiration. I began to drag sharp objects down my skin, rarely ever breaking the flesh. I just needed something to keep me distracted from my own emotions. I wanted to be apathetic, indifferent. Books weren't always as good as they were cracked up to being. Let's fast forward.

I'm in the 7th grade and my mother and me just had a fit about something so menial. We had daily spats. I slammed the door shut and locked it. I brought out the dull from its pouch on my table and set it down. I wanted her to accept me, but she wouldn't. Piercings were still at a minimum, three on each lobe. I hated the way she wanted me to be like my younger cousin, the prodigal. So very perfect. I traced a star onto my arm with a pen carefully. I'm artistically challenged. I tried to make every angle straight.

I didn't actually think that it would stay for long. My other scars only left a soft pink hue in its wake. Most of them had almost completely faded away. This one, however, did not. Being who I am, I applied a layer of Bactine onto the area and promptly began to dig the knife into my skin. It felt so good. With each stroke after the next, my anger was dissipating and the adrenaline rush began to flow through my veins. Suffice to say, I had never felt so complete in my life. I needed the physical pain like I needed oxygen. Desperately. I watched as a small river of blood formed beneath my left arm, splattering against the wood in agony. I was in ecstasy. Ironically enough, I was listening to Nirvana's Nevermind C.D. because I was playing 'Come As You Are' on my guitar.

Once I drew the misaligned star, I wiped up the blood from the floor and off of my arm, applying another layer of Bactine for cleansing the new wound. Despite how it all began, I'm still conscious about the risks. After a few weeks, the skin where I crudely carved the star began to pale. I thought it was just fading, but no. Years later, I had just began my ninth grade career. It's still on my arm, beaming back at me with uneven angles. I can't say I regret it because I don't. Everything on my body represents a time of my life. Just like that horribly drawn Bad Religion logo on my arm. I'm pretty sure that it's permanent from the waning of the cross. I'm not sure, however, that the entire thing will stay.

I love me and this is who I am. I guess I was just a little late in learning that little fact in life. I really wouldn't advise you to do what I did because I'm a really stupid kid. Thankfully, nothing other than bad drawing on my part, the star came out pretty nicely. I don't wear it as a badge, but as a reminder that I'm human. I bleed. I need affection. My little cutting stage hasn't completely left, but the number of times since I've done it through the years and drastically dwindled down to practically nonexistent. I still do it once in a while to see if I can still feel. I guess I'm just glad that I can. I repeat, do not do what I did to yourself. Get it done by a professional. One who has a certification and a license. One who has done them before. Good luck.


submitted by: proverbialenigma
on: 22 Sept. 2004
in Scarification

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Artist: Me
Studio: My+Home
Location: Jamaica%2C+New+York

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