White Lines

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.