I guess I'll start with the idea that cutting probably isn't a good idea, but when you're confused and can't decide why you're doing it, it's hard to differentiate cutting from any other body modification like tattoos or piercings, because it documents something. If you want to cut, get a professional to do it who can ensure your safety. Although I advocate the idea that cutting pleases me, this entry is in no way meant to encourage individuals to use cutting as a therapy. After all, if cutting were an effective therapy, I wouldn't be prone to cut myself again.
At A Glance Author twofaced Contact twofaced@bme.anon When N/A I'm not really sure how it started. One day I just wanted to burn; branding came into my mind and, in an attempt to procrastinate, I wanted to know more about it. A friend of mine in high school was a BME member, so a quick search brought me to where
I knew I could find information on branding. As I furthered my exploration of the site, I came to ritual cutting. I was disgusted by it. I had heard of people cutting their wrists before, but I had never seen cutting like this. But once the blood is all gone, all that is left are the little lines. I looked at those pictures and they represented an emotion to me, a symbol of personal turmoil. I had never considered cutting the rest of my body, but I had had the feeling - the feeling of just wanting to rip your skin off of your body, tear your face off, or pierce through your stomach.
It was about four weeks ago, I got very depressed and came home to an empty house. I had been dumped recently and it hurt. I wanted to die. I can come up with a lot of reasons not to die, but the winner is how much I love my brother. The rational and sane part of me gave up; she got too tired of trying to talk me out of every slump I sink into. "You really want to kill yourself?", she asked. "Prove it to me! Go and cut yourself! If you're so tough and not scared of the pain, go and prove it to me!", she ordered. Wait now....was that the crazy me or the fed up sane me talking? Oh man, I don't even know anymore. Why would I want to cut myself, what GOOD would come of that?
So why would I do this? For attention? For art? Pain for pleasure? Weakly and pathetically giving in to some insane compulsion? Could I make him love me? Could I make him hate me? Something else to try? An adrenaline rush? A spiritual expedition? Or do I just like being messed up? I came up with so many reasons to do it, and so many reasons why those weren't reasons, and then so many reasons to contradict the idea that they weren't reasons. By the end of it I didn't even know why I was doing it anymore, I just knew I was going to do it. Something inside of me was screaming to stab into my leg. I knew it was destructive, I knew it was wrong, but I still wanted to do it. I would never treat anyone else like this, or put them down in any way, so why couldn't I show myself the love that I would give to another person?
The confusion became overwhelming; eventually, I think I just gave in just so my mind would shut up. I was a novice; it was just two quick cuts on the outside of my calf right below my knee - super easy to hide in the winter. If they scar for summer, then they'll just be a rollerblading accident. I felt good - no big deal, I've had worse. Infection doesn't worry me, I've had worse dirtier cuts. Meh - right?
Two days later I got depressed again. Instantly, I knew - I'm going to cut myself. I went to the bathroom immediately, grabbed the razor and slashed at the same area. That one was shallow. You wimp! Go again! Okay. Next was a big deep one. It was beautiful. Just a few more. Okay, that's enough, put it away. I didn't have the courage to continue, but I felt better.
Soon after I cut again, four deep lines vertically, each under the next, into my thigh. While looking in the mirror I noticed the indent my underwear had left just between my hip and butt; I liked it, I wanted a cut there too. This one had to be deep, I wanted it to stick, so I pressed the razor right up against me a pushed slow. The feeling of my skin being unzippered seared through my body. It was healing, to me. This time I didn't want to put the blade away, but I had no where else to cut without it being visible or turning into something hideous. I managed to put the razor away, telling myself that these marks would heal and then I would be able to cut some more then. I didn't realize what this was going to turn into.
Over the next couple of days I looked at those marks and realized that I've always denied how much I hate myself. I've never dealt with the pain, just pushed it inside of me, brushed it off as something stupid and gone on the next day like nothing ever happened.
It's gotten to the point that I wouldn't even know where to start, the pain comes from so many places. I cut in frustration. I cut when I can't control what's happening to me. I cut to let myself free, like slowly perforating my body so that maybe my soul can escape one day.
One day I walked by the university book store and it struck me: how great would it be to own a scalpel? So I walked inside and purchased a dissection kit. The blades are sturdier and cut faster and deeper; they come in separate sterile packages so you can worry less about infection. A few other instruments came with the pack, but I have not found a use for them.
Everyday I come up with something that makes me want to cut myself, something I did "wrong" that day. "Why did I look at that person?" Cut. "Why did I say that?" Cut. "Why did I call him?" Cut. "Why did I do that?" Cut. Frustrations of not understanding myself.
Short cuts, long cuts, deep cuts, small cuts, meshes, curves, x's.
I could argue it and write it off as art, if I wanted to. But if I cut myself every time I "deserve" it, it's going to be a tough argument to pass off my mesh of scars as a masterpiece. Like one of those paintings where a person looked inside themselves and just threw three cans of paint all over their canvas. As the people walk by they say, "Oh how very nice."; as the people pass they think, "You call that art?" Few people buy that. I've already had to feel the judgment.
Well, if my cuts aren't a visual representation of pain and aggravation, then I don't know what is. Like a tattoo that says, "Fuck this." I don't particularly like the way that the cuts look, nor do I dislike them. I have a large dent/scar in the same leg from getting hit by a car as a child; it's been there since before I can remember. I look down at that scar and, to me, it is just my leg, a part of my anatomy. You know how your belly button is just sort of an anomaly, that's how I feel about my scars. When I don't feel like cutting myself, that's how I look at my scars - just something that is a part of me, very much so as my pain is a part of me. Like wearing your favorite shirt everyday, but one that's a little controversial and would be best worn under a sweater.
My cuts hurt, after I take a shower, when I walk, when I sit. Sometimes my cuts bleed through my pants and I have to cross my legs to hide them in fear and shame. They hurt every moment, constantly reminding me that something is going wrong inside my head.
To me, cutting is like bringing my inside to the outside of me. My wounds scream of pain, an expression of what I can't, or won't, vocalize. My cuts are hidden, and they are not cut for attention, but later I secretly hope someone finds them.
I'm tired of being disappointed by people that say they want to help and then change their mind. At least my cuts are a forewarning of how serious the situation is. Cutting can scream stay away just as much as it can scream come and help.