When I was a sophomore in high school, I cut myself for the first time. I’d read about it in magazines. My best friend did it. It started out as something trendy, but I eventually could understand it. I sympathized. It was just so distracting. It felt nice being in control of pain. It gave me false hope that maybe I could control emotional pain, too. I cut myself off and on for a few years. Whenever things got too tough. But once I started having sex and realized the cuts and scars were much harder to conceal when someone is holding onto your naked body, I stopped.
At least for awhile. July 4, 2011 was the last time I cut myself. I remember some things about that day so vividly, but can’t remember other things. I remember drinking a bottle of vodka. I remember staring at myself in the mirror and repeating “fuck you” over and over again. I remember the way my flesh looked. I remember the blood. I still have the scars, although they’re almost gone by now. I remember losing him. It was one of the worst days of my life. I watched the heart of the man I love shatter into a million pieces. I’ll never forget the way he looked at me. His eyes were full of pain – a significant amount of pain that I caused. He finally hurt as much as I did and he couldn’t handle it. He said he’d never talk to me again. We haven’t spoken, with the exception of an email, since.
When I truly open up to someone I tell them that I used to cut myself. Way back in the day. Because I like being honest. I like being comfortable enough to share my sadness and weakness with somebody. Vulnerability is a huge part of love, because love is one of the biggest risks you can take. I’ve been asked what makes me want to cut, what puts me over the edge. It’s hard to explain, but it’s a particular feeling. A mix of panic, loneliness, shame, anxiety, and desperation. If you’ve felt it you probably know what I mean. It’s the feeling you get when you want to punch yourself in the face. Maybe the feeling is what it feels like to finally give up.
Whatever it is, it’s rough.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about it from time to time. Usually when I’m feeling insignificant, invisible, and like a waste of space. Those times when I ask my boyfriend to say something nice at the end of a fight and he refuses. Those times when I feel replaceable. Those times I’m honest with him and he puts me down, only to avoid me. Those times when I have to apologize and try to sort things out when I shouldn’t be the one doing it. But he will never have to apologize or be on the receiving end of straight to voicemail phone calls. Because I know if I don’t set things straight, he never will. I know that the day I give up is the beginning of the end, and I don’t want another July 4, 2011.
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