The first time I cut myself I felt
relieved. Why? Because that was the only
way I could punish myself for not being who I wanted to be. I realized I was never going to be gorgeous
and skinny. Self esteem issues mixed
with feelings of dumbness pushed me over the edge. I needed something I could control. I needed relief. Cutting gave that to me; it gave me the
control I needed.
Bumming around the house one sunny day,
I began to feel sorry for myself. Television was not
occupying my mind and all my friends were busy.
My dad was at work, and my mom was “out.” It was just me, alone in the house.
Depressed, I walked into the kitchen
and pulled out the Cutco paring knife from the top drawer next to the
fridge. This was my answer! I could finally control something in my
life. Just one little cut and I would
feel better.
My hands shook as I made my way up the
stairs to my lonely room. Each step
terrified and excited me. Was I really
going to do this? Was I really going to
cut myself? When I reached my room and
silently tapped the door shut, I had made up my mind. I felt numb, and finally, I felt scared.
Sitting on my bed, I looked out the
window at the children playing hopscotch in the empty cul-de-sac. Their laughter and high pitched screams
depressed me. “What I wouldn’t give to
be a child again,” I thought.
I scrunched my left sleeve to my elbow
and examined my arm. Between my elbow
and wrist I found a perfect spot. It was
soft and it would hurt, but it would not hit a vein. I picked up the knife from my maroon down
comforter and took a deep breath. I
placed the knife precisely where I thought it should be, pressed down, and
pulled it in toward me. As the blade
left my arm, the blood welled up, but it was not enough. A second time I placed the knife in the same
spot, pushed down, and cut toward me.
Tears of joy left my eyes as the stream of blood spilled onto my
lap. I set the knife down, put a white
napkin over my wound, pulled my sleeve down, and replaced the knife to its
rightful spot in the drawer to the right of the refrigerator.
From knives I moved on to razorblades; they
left less scarring. I would pop the
blades out of the shaver and use those.
I found razorblades to be better because the cuts were thinner and just
as painful (razorblades tend to be sharper than knives).
I also didn’t have to answer questions of where the kitchen knives were
anymore. Razors are a necessity for a
girl, so it was easier to hide. I also moved from my arm to my upper leg so
people wouldn’t notice the cuts. It is
amazing what I have done to feel like I can control something.
It has been ten years since I first cut my skin open. Even now, as a college graduate, knowing what I do is wrong, I cannot escape it. Cutting is a part of me. It is who I am. My scars are who I am. Each faded white line in my skin reminds me
that I still have an outlet for relief. Even when alone, I still have me.
