I started cutting when I was fourteen. Or, that’s at least what I remember. It was a very dark time, so maybe I have blocked out all the painful memories in order to try and live a “normal” life. I don’t recall why I was so upset, I would only hurt myself when I was breaking down in tears and in so much pain that I could not bare it any longer. Maybe it was the constant arguing and yelling I would spend so many long nights listening to, or the constant pain from my back unable to be solved by doctors, x-rays, MRI results, spine specialists, physical therapists, chiropractors, or all the constant different sexual encounters I’ve had to stow away deep in my mind, and all the constant little things in between.
It all adds up, and I don’t know why, but I was not strong enough to overcome my “troubles” without taking my mind off it. To try and make it all stop, make it all go away, that’s all I wanted. So I would hurt myself. I would hurt myself in order to focus on the pain being inflicted, making it all just slip away, even for a little bit was better than living with it. I started using a pencil at first, just to feel the pain, leaving no scars…perfect. I then wanted blood, dripping from my wrists, so sought out scissors or needles, anything. I was still not content and advanced to the razorblade in the toolbox, in our garage. I got what I wanted, I knew how this pain came about.
It was me. I cut myself. I was a “cutter.” I cut myself ‘til the tears stopped rolling down my cheeks and onto the sheets. I cut myself ‘til there was so much pain, so much blood, that any other pain was dismissed from my mind and body.
I cut myself.
Events in my life have not gotten better, but there is no longer a razorblade caressed by a bloody rag hidden beneath my bed.
I am mistakes, and lessons learned
I am strong, honorable, loving, truthful, there
I am childhood, I am not real
I am late nights and cries and talks
I am healing
I am medicated
I am my new beginning, thankful
I am overcoming
I am living
I am not my pain.