It’s been eight years since the last time I lay awake at night imagining the blade sliding across my skin, the blood dripping as it did. I was sixteen then.
A lot of people will tell you that thoughts of cutting will linger for a long time before you actually get to it. That wasn’t true for my first time. The first I did it, it was something so in the spur of the moment, I wasn’t thinking through it. I was so angry at myself I wanted to shred my body to pieces. So, I did.
What’s interesting about that impulsivity is that now, eight years later, I still want to shred my body to pieces when I feel that way. After that first time, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to stop. Cutting became a way of release, a way of feeling something when back then I didn’t feel much, and I suppose a way of feeling in control.
I didn’t stop until my friends found out. Once I had a breakdown at school and started scratching/hurting my arms in class, and, as I didn’t have anything to cut with I asked my fried to borrow her scissors and went to the bathroom to do it. As I walked out of the stall, a friend was there, and asked me, “What did you do?” I told her, “Nothing, there was a loose end on my pants.” But she didn’t believe me, so, I showed her my cut. She cried. She told people at school and threatened to call my mom if I didn’t stop.
I ended up at the principal’s office that day, begging them not to call my mom, saying I’d never do that again, promising to talk to someone. To my friends, I said if my mom ever found out I’d kill myself. They wrote me many letters, begging me to stop, saying they loved me and didn’t want me to hurt. After that, I was mostly scared to cut myself again. But, buy, did I want to.
I never cut on my arms because I didn’t want people to notice. I was never a neglected kid that could get away with it. I had to cut on the inside of my thighs. But I liked the pain of cutting on my arms better. I did, a few times, because once in a while you can say you bumped into something.
I didn’t want scars, either, though I guess if I’d done my arms over someday I’d just cover it with tattoos.
As you know, I’ve been having a really hard time lately. And it’s not just falling into this horrible depressive pit, it’s also the self-hatred that comes along with it. Did you know that self-harm is directly linked to sexual abuse? Yeah, not really the discovery of the century, I know. But, still, a great percentage of self-harm victims have been sexually abused. Like me. No wonder we hate our bodies.
For the past few months, I’ve been having desperate urges to cut. Maybe this is what I should have felt like years ago, the idealization before actually getting to it. It’s something screaming inside of me, something that tells me I need this to survive. It’s something stronger than me. Some days, I can’t think of anything else but a blade sliding across my skin. And how great it would feel, how much I deserve it, how badly I need it.
I look at my thighs feel literally disgusted. I feel fat and unfittig, and I want to slash them to shreds. I look at my body in the mirror and I feel like it shouldn’t even exist. And it needs to be hurt. And cut. And cut. And blood.
Gone down the drain as I slid a blade across my skin. It bled. I promised myself it would be only that just one time, but as someone who used to cut all the time, it feels it isn’t possible. I thought cutting once would make the urges go away and make me feel better, but they grow every day. And I don’t know if I can fight them anymore.
I’m bleeding so much inside. I need to make myself bleed outside, too.