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Cuts n Scrapes n Burnz... all for me
I was never molseted. I was never abused. My
parents were divorced, but they loved me very much. I
know that. So why do I do this to myself?? I feel so
crazy sometimes. Like I want to rip out of my skin and
fly away from it all.
I remember my first time. I was a freshman in
highschool, spending the weekend at mom's house. There
was always some kind of drama going on. But I thought I'd
become used to it by now.
Sitting on the floor in my bedroom with a kitchen
knife, carving a pentagram on my inner left ankle. It
hurt like hell... at one point, i didnt think i'd be able
to finish it. But I kept at it. Scratching away at the
circle... carefully placing the lines of the star eveninly
inside. I was quite proud of myself when I was done.
To be quite honest... I started doing this to myself
as a pathetic attempt to get attention... not so much
from my parents, but from my friends, a certain guy I
liked, kids at school. But I soon found out, it attracted
the wrong kind of attention. People giving me puzzled and
sometimes disgusted looks. I remember hearing a gurl in
gym class whispering to a friend of hers, that I must be
some kind of psycotic head case. No worries... I only had
a couple marks on my left arm, and one on my leg. I soon
gave up all together and stopped.
Over the next few years, I'd carved into myslf a
couple/few times. Once after a fight with my father, Just
before he kicked me out to live with my mother, I'd
scratched the word MORBID on the inside of my left
forearm. Although it was summertime, and I ran around in
tank tops, not even trying to hide it, nobody seemed to
notice or even comment on it. Not even my parents.
After I moved in with mom, I had to change school.
There was one guy there who I frequently chatted with
during my breaks. Im not quite sure why, but one day
while we were waiting for the bus, I asked him if he could
do me a favor and carve an anarchy sign on my back left
shoulder, and a pentagram on the right. he was very
enthusiastic about my request and that pleased me a great
deal. (one of these days i'll tell you about my battle w/
make up to hide it when i went to prom three days later...
After that, I stopped for a long time. A month
before I turned 18, I became pregnant with my current
boyfriend's baby. I guess I had many other things on my
mind and never really thought about it, much less miss
it. Soon after my daughter was born, I moved into an
apartment with her father (the guy im usually bitching
about in other entries)
Things were great for awhile.. But nearly a year
later, we began fighting. I thought it'd eventually get
better, but it's actually been quite the opposite. they'd
get worse and worse... He'd never really get physical
with me... but his verbal abuse when we were screaming
was in my opinion, far worse. He knew just the right
thing to say, at just the right time... ripping me apart
inside, like nothing ever has. Or maybe I am
overreacting, and him calling me a ignorant psychotic cunt
shouldnt affect me in any way... yeah right.
I remember when I started up again. I was working
with the county for awhile back in December of 2002. It
turned out my supervisor was a racist hispanic. There was
so much drama, gossip, and favoritism in that office, I
found myself going home every day, either angry, upset,
depressed, the list goes on.
One day, after yet another fight with Jason, I'd
locked myself in the bathroom. On a shelf, I'd picked up
the sewing kit. Reached inside and pulled out a needle.
I honestly couldnt tell you what I was thinking at the
time, because I dont remember. Using my lighter, I'd heat
up the end, making the tip and half way down a glowing
red. Sitting there, angry, frustrated, sad... I closed my
eyes, held my breath and brought the tiny glowing piece of
metal to my left arm. Just on the inside, and only a few
times. Enough to make a start. Nobody would see, or
know. It was alright. By the time I was ready to do it
again, the scars would be long gone.
A few months went by. The scars faded a bit. I was
ready to do it again. We'd just been fighting and I was
so anxious to do it again. I had my own plan. I'd reheat
the needle, and bring it to my skin, for as many times as
I'd felt like this. Almost like a talley. Jason began to
notice and comment on it. "what do you think people think
when they see that?" His comments only angered me more.
One of the worse fights we'd ever had. Jason moved
his brother into our apartment without asking me about
it. I felt like I had no control over my home. No
control over how we did things. No control over how we
raised our daughter. No control over my life. I remember
locking myself in the bathroom again. Curling up on the
cold tile floor, with nothing but a towl as a pillow.
Knees in my stomach, crying and asking "why he was allowd
to make me feel like this." a lighter in one hand and a
needle in the other. I'd added a few more talleys to the
record of icky feelings etched into my arm. Soon enough,
I'd left the bathroom, only to fight with him in the
bedroom. I'm not sure what triggered it, cant really
remember... but sometime in the argument, I picked up his
pocket knife and began acratching away at my arm. I've
got scars that go from my left shoulder, all the way down
to my wrist... He was sorry for the moment when he'd
thought I'd slit my wrists, but when he realised they were
only bleeding scratches, he went on to poke at me... "who
needs this blubbering!?!" There was no hiding these
wounds from my parents.. Mom noticed right away.
It had gotten to where I wasnt even waiting for my
wounds to heal before I'd go at myself again... Soon
enough, I'd stopped with the lighter and began simpley
scraping the needle across my flesh... the same arm, with
all the old scars. I'd then pour rubbing alcohol on
them. The extra sting, made me feel better somehow.
Pretty soon, I started on my legs... first the thighs,
just above the knees. then I moved to my left calf..
(this only recently). I remember times when I was feeling
anxious or angry... Running my fingers across the
scratches on my legs... sometimes letting my fingernails
go to work. It was like I was looking for that added on
pain. I still stand in a hot shower, just after I've
carved into myself.. the hot water beating on my arm,
running down my legs, stinging every inch. There's
something about it that comforts me. Something that makes
me stop crying. Almost like it's helping me forget for
the time being. But it never lasts long enough.