i have a vague memory of me laying on my back looking at my arms.
they were soft, clean, and young.
pale, with a few birth marks i admired.
blue sky was in the background.
grass scratched the back of my neck. that always bothered me.
i have a second memory of the first object to slide across my arm. my eyes widened and i felt something no words can explain. no high can match. sex doesn't come close. i shivered watching a bead of blood slide down to my elbow.
this is exhilarating.
my addiction began.
i found cutting, burning and banging to be the only thing keeping me alive.
doesn't make sense to you?
i never did any of this to kill myself, that would be silly and id be more creative then that.
new ways and places to do it would soon become like a game to me.
the bottom of my feet would be torn apart so every step i took i could be reminded of the high i had.
my left arm is a disaster, simply because it was the easiest part of my body to wreck.
today i wonder what people think.
this is the first time really putting into words about what I've done to my body in the name of self mutilation.
i think people want to ask me about it. its there. its obvious. a few people have brought it up, but i know they would be too fucking stupid to understand the problem i had.
i was never your typical person who would wear short sleeves and show my marks off. i had a system of arms in the winter, and any where else that would be hidden in the summer.
why did i do this?
...
why do people drink? smoke weed? smoke cigarettes?
they like the way it made them feel. it gives them an altered mind and they wanted to continue feeling it.
why do people keep drinking, and smoking?
they become addicted.
i do not know the physical meaning of my addiction, but something in my head would become released when i did it. i would become high.
maybe my adrenalin reaction is different from others.
i get close to the same feeling when i stand on something high.
i got close to the same feeling when my store was robbed at gun point.
i became the worst kind of addict. when i slept at friends houses, i would stay up all night fidgety until i can feel it again. i would storm threw all of their stuff until i found something i can do it with. this is when i began burning. bringing a lighter with me was simple. i smoked cigarettes so no one would question it. and as i laid on the floor of my friends room as they slept the room would like up for a short time and i would hold the metal to my arm. over healing wounds, on top of clean skin. id feel a rush of adrenalin filling up in the blister and id be able to sleep once more.
banging began to happen when i was in the deepest of my addiction. on top of the self mutilation i became addicted to prescription pills.
i was 10 xanax in and sitting on my bed room floor next to my dresser. i was carving into my leg with a broken Snapple bottle. i reached into the bottom drawer of my dresser to grab a bandanna, accidentally pulling it out and dropping it onto my other hand. i felt a new high as cutting wasn't enough anymore.
banging wasn't all that great. i never broke a bone. i think i might have popped a few fingers out. the only reason it was enjoyable was because it was something i could do anywhere without getting the attention that a cut showing would. in school if i needed to feel something quickly i could just go to the bathroom and bang my hand/wrist against the sink. i could even do it right in the classroom against my desk if it wasn't to calm and quiet.
i cant recall a time I've been upset with someone else and ran home to cut myself.
doing all this was purely something for my own benefits.
i understand how cutting is very frowned upon by some, and very immature and something to make fun of to others.
cutting is not a joke.
disclaimer: when little bitches who get into a fight with their parents, boyfriend, or girlfriend go home, scratch themselves, and call it a cut need to be shot. they make this a joke. they are the reason i get weird reactions when people see my arms. weather its a small scar or one an inch thick, ignorant eyes see it as the same. i am not in your pathetic categorie. i have real scars that wont fade to nothing as i grow old. i will take my scars with me until the day i leave this world.
i have gotten tattoos over my scars.
i plan to get full sleeves so all my scars will be covered someday.
they still show through.
i have come to regret it.
i love my scars.
watching my cuts heal is a beautiful thing.
cutting my arm open to release whats inside of me and watching the strongest part of me close it up.
and i don't think its something ill ever stop doing.
when you have a bad week, everything is built up on your shoulders what do you do?
get wasted? go downtown and find a stranger to have sex with? smoke a bowl? take some pills?
i make a small incision and watch as it slowly heals, which is beautiful.
whats worse for your body? taking something in that is poisonous and becoming altered because its something your body isn't suppose to have in it. or doing something to the outside and letting your body do the job its suppose to do?
cutting will always be looked down upon.
honestly, i don't blame anyone for looking down on it.
a lot of people who cut are suicidal.
a lot of them are crying out for attention.
a lot of them do end up killing themselves.
it is a sign of depression.
a sign of hopelessness.
a sign that this person needs something in his or her life to make the pain go away.
not me.
i have been doing this to myself for 11 years.
i don't plan to stop.
I'm not nearly as bad as i once was.
but just like with drinking and drugs.
i once was young and has a lose grip on reality.
i was addicted to drugs.
i was slowly becoming addicted to alcohol.
and i was very addicted to self mutilation.
now everything comes in small quantities.
i barely do drugs. once every 4 months at most.
i drink once a week.
and i hurt myself less then often.
its something that i don't want people to worry about. its something that i wish could be talked about freely. its hard when someone asks me about the scars on my arms only because i know it will be hard for me to explain.
everyone knows me as this crazy, funny, loud, outspoken, person. if i go from saying a mom joke to something as serious as cutting, it will be hard to take me seriously.
i have a few buttons that you can not press with me.
-cutting.
-my grandmother, and my brothers.
-drug and alcohol use.
if i try my hardest to shorten my cutting reasoning and story, shit gets real. the person i tell will be dumbfounded due to the swing away from how they really know me. if they made a joke after i said anything i would blow up on them. if they judged me from that point, id have to stop talking to them. so its something i just don't talk about.
i know you wont understand so why bother right?
when you see my scars, don't tell me you once cut.
i am not in competition, nor do i want to judge you because 99% i know you didn't really cut. you just gave yourself a boo boo that your mommy kissed with attention and made it all better.
like i said, this is a button i don't like to have pressed.
cutting is something i take very seriously. its something very close to me. its something that has been in my life for 11 years. it is become part of who i am.
this is the first time I've put down in writing and shared with anyone. my mother has access to this blog. my sister, my grandmother can read it too.
they all see the scars. they are obvious. so i min as well let everyone read this no?
