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Scars Within

The cutting:

(Three xanx and roughly a fourth of a bottle of 99Apples had led me to quite a state of instability. After an appalling screaming fit with a recent ex I felt more miserable and alone than I could handle. It was at the barely conscious moment I took a thin sharp razor I still don't know why I saved or continue to save, to my arm. I don't remember much of actually cutting myself I was very much incoherent and terribly unaware. I remember the slight pain as my skin split, the cool flow of blood and the liquid feeling of it dripping down the side of my arm. I remember the eerie blue glow of the TV on the carpet in the dark room and needing to cut myself more. With each slash it wasn't enough, it wasn't deep enough. I had never cut myself so recklessly; I cut over freshly opened wounds, and sides of my arm without the years of scar tissue. Consequently these wounds were much deeper and later were to become hideously infected. I vaguely remember getting blood on my pillow, it could have been the next day that I started to notice all the blood that I lost, I had to change the bedding. It bled so much because of the alcohol in my system and got everywhere because I crawled into bed and lost consciousness directly afterward. I don't think I woke up for a day and half, the whole time without cleaning my arm.)

The following is an account of daily thought following that very messy night. Each paragraph is roughly a separate day and recounts the healing process both emotionally and physically.

As I prolonged the separation I also prolonged the hurt. I feel cleansed by fire, I'm still burning as in pain, (physical due to the mess I created when I was drunk, I wonder as time passes and I see those dried blood marks on my sheets and pillows what will I think, will there be a time when the only emotion attached is youth ruddiness?) will I look at the pictures he drew of me naked and just see their beauty and near purity of the moment, not the anger, hurt and loss I see now. Will I be able to give his under clothes back and look him in the face, knowing I spent hours crying over the scent of his shirt? When my arm heals will my insides follow, I look at my arm and I see one month, I want to speed it along, not worry about its infection, I see this with my insides, how infected are they, are they festering in this sealing shell of unreleased emotion. A slimy plastic coating of silent pain. Will I expel this pus in one month; will I wear tank tops when the weather warms? It's unfair to put a time limit on pain and physical hurt. I feel festered, caged in, uselessly rebelling against these imagined restraints. I can't do my work because I can't concentrate, I can't watch TV for the same reasons,

Lost, and faint from not eating. The thought of food makes me sick. I broke a glass light today, part of it cutting my forearm. I saw the blood and thought I felt glass inside the wound, I was going to faint. Once the spell passed much to my amusement I notice the huge infected gaping wounds I created less than 3 days ago. I am going to faint over a small cut?

I'm feeling panicky; I feel it bubbling up inside me. Oddly enough the only thing that's keeping me grounded is the maddening damn infection. It was swollen and very hot, I took a shower to better get at it and used anti bacterial soap, this is the third time I've doused it hydrogen peroxide. It's stinging; it feels like tiny fire ants beneath my skin, digesting it from inside. It feels itchy like poison ivy but only after you itch, that burning feeling, when it pusses and continues to itch. It feels stale and crackled like torn recycled wind blown paper. It feels infected and I'm sacred. I had this crazy thought of going to the doctors, and saying I'm 20yrs old and I've cut myself, its infected because I was so depressed I couldn't get up to clean it much less formulate the thought that it needed to be cleaned. I haven't cut myself in five years; the only time anything I did to myself ever got infected was when I wanted it to due to scarification purposes. Now I just feel alone, stupid, in pain and slowly going crazy. I know I'm not crazy because I'm still here enough to distinguish crazy, I'm functioning, I made calls and set things up for my apartment. I just had a very terrible thought, that I would lose it and have to give up the first place I would ever have by myself. its fueling my craziness, the scratching spiders on the back of my brain feeling. I write to save what left of. The pain is driving me crazy; it feels like hot metal and loose of circulation returning. –Break and reread- its not enough, it doesn't say enough, its not real enough, I feel worse than these words, much worse, I want my arm to calm down, I want my head to calm down, I want to scream and run and...

I've done a very strange thing, I've calmed myself. I placed my arm across my bare chest to get a better look at the wounds and realized what a strong position it looked like. I stared myself down, I defied myself and sought strength, I noticed my reddish curls and smiled, feeding off of the emotion, it worked. Tomorrow if it still looks like shit I will take the heavy duty anti biotic that were prescribed for my gums.  I questioned called Amanda in that moment of losing it and then realized I could never put that burden on her, especially if I cant put it on ma. Right now and always this is my problem and I WILL get through it as best as I can.

The purpose of bringing this writing up was for this line solely: I was foolish to think my head would heal in time with my arm. It is well known emotions, especially mine, meaning I like to ruminate an ungodly amount of time before I make peace, take a very long time to heal, longer of course than the body. I suppose I was just that hopeless I thought both would heal perfectly in tune together, so I could continue on my fully functional, perfect single life of independence and supreme happiness. (Cough: cough)

When I look at the large purple red scars now I'm ashamed. I can't wear my fitted t-shirts or tank tops and I've lied to the people I love and who care enough to question their source. I rub it will vitamin e hoping for a lesser effect and am disgusted. It is when I am in a black crevasse of disgust that I'll place my arm across my chest and look at myself in the mirror. That simple stance of strength and defiance, the stance, which brought me from the brink of blackest depth, that I find comfort in my scars. They served me w


submitted by: Anonymous
on: 11 April 2006
in Ritual

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