My flirtation with cutting (and other forms of self-injury) began when I was a sophomore in high school. What my parents and everyone else saw was a normal teenage girl, slightly introverted, but otherwise wholly normal who did well in her classes. What I saw in the mirror was an ugly freak and pain that I had to release somehow. Even before I knew that other people cut, I started.
At A Glance Author phoenix Contact phoenixtx@gmail.com When Five years ago Initially, I began with fingernails (which I don't count as cutting, so that will not be part of the story). One day after a long screaming fight with my parents, I walked upstairs into my bathroom, drew the bathwater, and soaked in it. As I lay there, I began to attempt to take apart my razor. When I was successful, I painfully scraped "fuck you" into my upper thigh. Thankfully, it was only superficial and went away shortly without any scarring.
A year or two later, my dad decided it would be a good idea to buy me a toolkit for christmas. To my morbid delight, the kit contained a bright yellow razor. This would become my companion for a very long time. Whenever i had a fight with my parents (almost daily) or with my boyfriend (sadly, fairly frequently) out came the razor. I was able to temporarily numb my emotional pain along with physical pain. I was also fascinated and soothed by the blood seeping out of the wound. (When i was younger, I accidentally sliced my finger open with scissors. I didn't cry; rather, I watched the blood in fascination.)
As it was easy to avoid my parents looking at me closely, I cut wherever I wanted. Most frequently, it was up and down the arm, criss-crossing, going every which way. Other days, I made deliberate strokes across my arms. Seldom did I ever do the wrists.
After one particularly bad fight with my boyfriend, as soon as I got home, I locked myself in my room, sat down on my bed, and removed my precious friend from his drawer. Calmly, almost tranquil, I scraped it from my knee to my thigh. It went in deeper than I expected. Almost two years later, you can still see it.
Shortly after, my father found out that I was having sex. My life was shattering and I needed to stop it. I started cutting. I cut, and I didn't stop. My arms were just a criss-cross of bloody wounds. Unfortunatly for me, I didn't hide these well enough. My father found them the next day, and he took my friend away.
This was not enough to stop me. I purchased a serrated blade for only $3 from a friend at work, and that became my new tool of choice.
I began to cut more and more frequently as my home life got worse. I also got smarter. My parents began to check my arms, but they never checked all the way up. My shoulders and upper arms became bloody and scarred from all the cutting. It didn't help that my knife was dull. The pain made me feel alive, though, and I didn't care. Most commonly I would make 3-4 slices on my left arm, and 1-2 on my right. However, on nights where the pain was almost unbearable, I would occasionally make over 10 cuts.
My boyfriend, even though he had cut for years, was starting to grow more and more concerned about me. I frequently promised him I would stop, but I couldn't. I was honestly addicted to the sensation.
I refused to let my wounds heal. As they did, I would pick at the scabs, making them bleed again, or run the blade over and over them. Anything to feel. I did end up slicing at my wrists at one point in time (when I was safely away from my parents) and now i have two slight scars from that. They are small, and maybe half-to-quarter the size of one scar on my upper arm.
By the time I was in my own apartment, I was in a horrible depression. My boyfriend and I had broken up, I was hearing demons (i was on zoloft at the time) and I was cutting every single day. I would break down in tears, and when I gained enough strength and ability to see, I would take the blade and -cut- -cut- -cut-.
Eventually, my boyfriend and I got back together. The cutting wasn't stopping, though. He threatened to make me stop - at one point, he poured salt into my fresh wounds. Even that wasn't enough to make me stop, though. but I promised I would.
finally, one night I called him up and told him through my tears that I had cut yet again. He told me to come over, and when I did, I found out that he was trying to get me into the psychiatric ward. long story short, he succeeded, and I spent some time in there, unsuccessfully.
I've stopped cutting for the past few months, thanks to a new medication and living in a new town... however, I cherish my scars. not only do I find them aesthetically appealing, they show me how much I have lived through.