I'm going to delve into the inter-workings of my relationship with a hair-straightener & a exacto knife. That relationship was long & complicated, leaving me not just heart broken, but scared for life--literally.
Small, simple, safe price.
Small. I always knew that I was doing something very wrong & hurtful to myself, but I also believed that it was something very small & affected no one else but me, I know that it was supposed to affect everyone around me, but that is only true if they noticed. 5 years. (I say 5 because it was persistent, a few times a week, for 5 years & not as often for another year. So it really is six years.) so 6 years. 2,190 days. I went into pools. I changed in gym. I not only burned but cut while people were over. One time my back began to bleed in 10th grade gym. But no one noticed. No one. No one has ever asked me about my scars. Or my present wounds. I do have a cat, but my cuts sure were persistent for having de-clawed cats.
Simple. It was so simple. All I had to do was run a blade across my skin & things changed. I had control. I had comfort. I was the one causing the pain instead of someone else. Everyone else. I wasn't as weak, because I took things into my own hands. I could withstand the pain. Actually, I liked it. Like I said, simple.
Safe. Sure, it wasn't safe from a health standpoint, but it sure was safe in what I was aiming for. It was safe because I never failed--& that sure was something. Failing is something I am good at, & I exert the skill in all aspects of my life. But I never failed to draw blood, find comfort, do something right. & I gripped to that feeling. Although I never believed that I deserved anything more, I was always let down by other people. Others always failed me. & I always failed them. But this never failed to give me what I asked for. Every time.
Price. It is a price. Most of the time I hurt myself in order to gain control & it associated with rough days. If there was something that wounded me mentally, I'd cut & watch the pain bleed out, & the wound heal. Hoping that the other wound within me healed with it. That maybe I'd bleed away all of my flaws. Yeah, it didn't work. But I kept trying. But another way I used self-mutilation was for punishment. & I had to pay a price for the mistakes I made.
I want the pain of payment.
I feel like I must make a payment for the mistakes I made. A payment in pain. Well, I used to feel that way. Now I see that's wrong. The last time I self-mutilated, I was making a harsh payment for the huge mistake I made. That day I had an IB exam for my history course. I had studied hard & felt pretty prepared. When we got the test booklet, I read the questions & found three that worked perfectly. I had no problem writing them or working in the numerous facts I had memorized. When the test was over I felt pretty confident about how I had done. You know kids, everyone wants to talk about how they did on the test & what they wrote. Well, these high schoolers were no exception. I left the testing area & was instantly berated by friends on how I did. I'm not really a fan of sharing things like this with others because I never feel like I do well, & the few times I do I dislike the idea of bragging. Well, I couldn't, although I should have, avoid the talk this time & told my friend that I had answered this one question about blah blah. She informed me that we couldn't answer the question because it was the wrong decade. At that comment, I realized I had written absolutely nothing accurate in that essay. Yeah, I really fucked up.
My friend wanted to celebrate the end of history with me & we had planned to go to a late lunch after the test. If this hadn't been pre arranged, I would have not attended. But it had. & so I went. She decided to bring her boyfriend & good male friend along. I was already in a dangerous state but it worsened when I ate half of the food despite being full of disappointment. & I was completely left out the entire meal. It made my faking easier but it also lent no distractions to calm my upset mind.
I returned home to find my mother had returned. So my day was inevitably going to turn from crap to shit. When she inquired about the test I told her of my mistake. I know it was stupid of me, but hadn't I already proven I was an idiot? Well she had a lot to say. Needless to say, I was not the only one to physically hurt me that day.
I had already burned myself a few times that week. I had almost completely stopped cutting & only burned. Burns heal with no scar & the numbing effect doesn't always kick in. I had pretty much stopped constantly cutting two years prior in 10th grade when it got a little out of hand. I had been having a pretty shitty month with my mother & had cut my back once a day for twenty seven days. My back & my stomach, actually. I cut into my stretch marks mostly. I have a few strays on my legs & my arms, but scars bleed more & are easier to hide when I'm older. I also thought it only fit, that I was unhappy because of my repulsive size & the stretch marks were a result of my vile habits. Well, 27 cuts on my back is a lot. & I hadn't really planned them around my life at that time because my mother's moods often reined. Unfortunately for me, it was the testing week for physical education in gym the last week of my mutilation splurge. I already embarrassed myself beyond comprehension in everyday gym classes, but these tests never failed to make my hate for myself be turned up a few notches. & one of the devastating tests was curl-ups. Ah, curl-ups. Throwing your torso up towards your knees using your ab muscles (note, you must have those to be successful in this horrid test) & then coming back to the floor & then repeating as many times possible in a minute. I was normally only able to do about 3/4 of the number of the minimal requirement normally, but this time I only churned out 1/2. (if that) I just couldn't take the unwanted pain throbbing in my back. That was when my habit changed from an exacto knife being pulled across my skin, to a headed iron or heated spoon being placed upon my skin.
Wow, I diverged from the story I was telling. Let's get back, shell we? Okay, so after I talked with my mother, I went down stairs & went for my iron. I decided that it wasn't going to be enough & went to get my old friend from storage. My little box of wonderment. I went into the shower & turned the water on to as hot as it could be. No, not as hot as I could stand. In the ever growing steam I began to cut into my back. I moved on to the stretch marks in my inner elbow to the ones in my inner knees to the strange creases in my wrist. (yeah, I am unbelievably fat & have an unimaginable number of stretch marks.) I made 19 cuts. 19 deep cuts. Each gash representing an hour wasted on studying for that damned test. For all the hours lost. I stood in the scorching water until the bleeding subsided. 19 lacerations produce a whole lot of blood. I mean I'm using a razor, & we all know what it's like to cut yourself shaving. Well imagine doing it almost 20 times & a lot longer than a little nick.
Well, despite my disregard of health with cutting in the first place, I did keep everything very clean & sanitary. Normally, I would use peroxide to clean the wounds, but this time I used alcohol. Same effect just with pain involved. After losing so much blood, I felt very lightheaded & dizzy. I went & laid down in my bed & realized that I should probably get help. But I knew that I didn't deserve any help. So I decided to just sleep, which I did. Obviously, I woke up. Sore & wounded. But nevertheless, alive. I went to the bathroom & assessed the damage I had done. With how pale & weak I was, it was obvious that I was lucky I had woken. I looked into my eyes in the mirror, the last time I have, & told myself I didn't deserve this. & I haven't cut since. Yep, stopped cold turkey.
I can't say the urge isn't there. When ever I fuck up, I still feel an urge to hurt myself. Whenever things in my life began to get bumpy, & these last few months they seem to have turned towards the worse, I still want to feel pain. I don't think I could have resisted a few times without Shelly, no, I know I wouldn't have.
I believe in myself for once. I do feel weak most of my days, but I do feel like I'm strong enough to keep myself from relapsing. I know that I don't deserve it. That everyone else makes mistakes too. I realize now that it doesn't bring the type of comfort I need. Really, it didn't bring true comfort at all. My best friend, my Shelly, has somehow replaced the blade. She provides the comfort I need. Knowing that there isn't anything I can say to have her turn from me. That she is always there & always knows everything. I might end up failing her sometime, but I still gave her my trust, which she is the only one who has it. For she is the only one in my life so far that has earned it.
A blade might be a safety blanket, but it sure doesn't love you back.
I know this is a really heavy post, but I like the story because it is one of success. You can't reach the clouds without being at the ground first.
Farewell.
"Damaged people are dangerous. They know they can survive." –Josephine Hart, Damage
No comments:
Post a Comment