WRITING: blood

This was written March 5th, 2004. At this time, blood definitely was a theme in my life. But the concept still resonates today. I believe this was written as therapy homework considering I was dreaming about blood constantly.

Dream interpretation says that blood represents the life force. I don’t believe it. Even as it pounds through my veins, my own blood haunts me. It does not sustain me; it infects me. Sometime, someway it was poisoned and has now become some perverse element in my life. I see it in the passing of my dead child, in learning the best method to distract myself from pain, in the hallucinations of my disease, and in my twisted dreams.

There was so much blood, a deep crimson that I had never seen before. The shades of red danced together as they poured from me and slipped down the toilet. The wrenching pains were the dying cries of my baby. I felt it clawing from inside me – nothing would want to grow in a body as wretched as mine. The bleeding never slowed; it never seemed to end. It tainted my sheets at night. I saw the vague, dead soul in it every time it disappeared in the swirling water.

Cutting was a completely different thing. I finally realized that burning was not enough to quench my pain – it did not let the blood escape. I could hear the blood scream and sigh in relief as I sliced the blade along my arm and allowed it to trickle over my skin. As the tranquility tingled over me, I watched it flow. The bright red drops spattering in the white sink. Then I bound it back in beneath the bandage.

Reality was not its only arena though. What the blood could not taint or infect in real life, it ravaged in my mind. My hallucinations could supposedly be linked to my bipolar disorder, but there was always blood, always pain. My first hallucination – the image consumed my sight – my own arms were held in front of me, slashed and bleeding. It dripped down from my wrists off my elbows. The rest mirrored the first, my carved flesh – wrists, arms, legs, back, stomach. Then the walls began to bleed. The thick liquid oozed from the ceiling as I showered or brushed my hair. Blood everywhere, always before my eyes, always in my mind.

As it pumped through my brain itself, the blood also snaked through my dreams. Reality, conscious delusions, even figments of my unconscious – all drenched with blood, my blood. In one dream, my entire body burned as I stood in a bathroom. The pain felt as if my flesh was being ripped from the bones. I looked down to see every burn I had inflicted on myself decay down to an open wound, every cut I had slashed split open and pour out blood. It gushed out of me. I climbed into the bathtub and let it fill with my blood. In another, barbed wire was wrapped around my wrists. My flesh tore and ripped away as the barbed wire was tugged off. These and endless other flashings of blood, mutilation, cuts.

Blood is all I see. The images are branded on the backs of my eyelids, on the walls of my mind. I should be a vampire for such an infatuation. Why does it infect every facet of my experience? Is it guilt from a dead child? Is it my preoccupation with self-mutilation? Is it the symptoms of a morbid, disturbed mind? What makes the walls bleed and scars split open?

WRITING: Self-Diagnosis

The discussion Paperback Writer and I had on my uuummm post got me thinking about bipolar and the various levels and diagnosis. Then I remember this paper I wrote for my Abnormal Psychology class in college. Some of it may sound all too familiar. The professor told us to write a paper on anything related to mental illness. I wrote it on myself. At the time, I was in therapy, and my therapist was having me research two conditions and decide which was more likely my diagnosis (perhaps the only truly helpful thing she did for me). The paper was written in November 2003. I got an A (100%). I even kept the works cited on it.

Self-Diagnosis

I am not enrolled in this Abnormal Psychology class because I am a psychology major or have any interest in pursuing a career in the field. I am on the other side; I am on the “couch,” being examined, diagnosed, and treated. I took this class because I recently decided to seek the assistance of a psychologist, and I wanted to educate myself on the processes and possibilities. In addition, I am a writer and a writing student, and I hope that this class can provide me with character development ideas and help me avoid ignorant stereotypes of mental disorders. But mostly, my incentives are driven by confronting my own mental illness.

I am not entirely certain of what precipitated the confrontation of my problems. It was probably a gradual build-up to a breaking point. What could be called my “disease” no doubt emerged about eight years ago, when I was twelve. I became unstable and traumatized by my parents’ abrupt and unforeseen divorce. After that, it seemed to be a rapid progression downward, peaking in my late adolescence. However, I indulged completely and lived utterly controlled by my condition until this past year. I futilely attempted to battle my self-destructive behaviors but to no avail. I was beginning to fear myself and my actions, and I was starting to worry that I was tumbling beyond control. Perhaps teetering on that edge forced me to seek help, but more embarrassingly, I might attribute my breaking point to an encounter with the Scientologists, walking down Hollywood Boulevard in Los Angeles. My roommate, at the time, and I foolishly consented to a personality test. While she passed within the “normal range,” I apparently did not. One of their representatives, or salespeople, or recruiters sat me down and reviewed my results with me, reciting all the horrible traits and flaws in my personality. It seemed to confirm that these defects were not simply figments in my mind, and they were painfully visible to the outside world. This realization, however pathetically procured, gnawed at me for weeks. I also began to have unexplained medical problems. I suffered excruciating, debilitating cramp-like pains for weeks. Although my doctors and emergency room staff thoroughly doped me up on Vicodin, no physical cause could be determined. Panic attacks appeared later and could not be attributed to heart palpitations or thyroid problems. All of these complaints were most likely somatic, and my doctor referred me to a psychologist. The compilation of these factors pushed me into the therapy room.

My diagnosis has turned out to be amazingly complicated for me in multiple ways. The technical, defining aspects have been confusing and hazy. My symptomology seems to shift through several possibilities and perch on borderlines between choices.

My traits loosely fit the DSM-IV-TR’s criteria for Borderline Personality Disorder. I make efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment, but they are not frantic (Criterion 1) (DSM 654). I constantly fear that the people close to me will flee from me at any time, yet these suspicions are rarely expressed, so they do not alienate the people in my life. My attitudes alternate between idealization and devaluation, especially in my relationships, yet they are not in extreme black-and-white terms (Criterion 2) (DSM 654). They do not outwardly affect my relationships and mainly stay confined in my mind and thoughts. I present an identity disturbance in a fluctuating sense of self and self-image, yet this also is restricted to my mind and is seldom outwardly expressed (Criterion 3) (DSM 654). I am constantly unsure of who I am or how I see myself, but this is a battle reserved for my thoughts. I formerly indulged in impulsive, potentially destructive behaviors, including careless sex, substance abuse (mainly alcohol), and reckless driving (Criterion 4) (DSM 654). I exhibited suicidal behavior, gestures, and threats (Criterion 5) (DSM 654). My humor was darkly shrouded in suicidal references. I was referred to the counseling center in high school numerous times for fear that I was a “suicide risk.” I also frequently burned and cut myself for several years (Criterion 5) (DSM 654). This past November 11th marked my anniversary, one year since my last cut. My moods have always seemed extremely unstable and reactive (Criterion 6) (DSM 654). I often suffer chronic feelings of emptiness (Criterion 7) (DSM 654). Inappropriate anger used to flush over me, and I would have painful difficulty controlling my temper (Criterion 8) (DSM 654). And dissociative symptoms appeared in the instances of self-mutilation (Criterion 10) (DSM 654). I would be overwhelmed by a severe sense of depersonalization; I felt disrupted from myself and reality, and I would slice myself sometimes to confirm I was alive and real.

My disease seems to flit through nearly all of the criteria required for Borderline Personality Disorder. However, personality disorders can encompass characteristics that all people periodically display (Davison 409). My symptoms obviously do not meet the extremity necessary for diagnosis. My behaviors that resemble the criteria seem to be only mild versions that appeared in the flights of a depressive episode. Also, they emerged when I was around sixteen years old and dissipated substantially, although remaining present, around nineteen. This could easily be correlated to my youth and that stage in my life. Most importantly, I have long-term relationships that my disorder has not destroyed, unlike true Borderline behavior.

With Borderline eliminated, it still remains to decide between Bipolar I, Bipolar II, and Cyclothymia. I exhibit the cycles, so it has to be determined which one I fall into. For a substantial amount of time, my only state appeared to be depressed with only minute instances that could be considered manic. However, during this time, I was a severe drinker; I got completely intoxicated nearly every day. This undoubtedly suppressed my cycles, but now that my alcohol intake has been reduced, there seems to be a near balance of depressed and manic cycles.

In a manic episode, I have a decreased need for sleep, am more talkative, feel pressure to keep talking, have flights of ideas and racing thoughts, have severe distractibility, and involve myself in pleasurable activities that have high potential for painful consequences; yet, these behaviors have not been severe enough to adversely effect or impair my occupational functioning, social activities, or relationships with others, so they would be considered hypomanic (DSM 335). In these states, I feel happy or excessively irritated for no identifiable reason; I am full of energy and feel I need to be doing something, anything. I babble on endlessly about any topic that flitters across my mind. My friends and the people around me can immediately notice the change in my behavior. This would make my diagnosis Bipolar II rather than Bipolar I (DSM 359).

In a depressed episode, I experience a sustained depressed mood, feel sad and empty, have diminished interest in pleasurable or all activities, have either insomnia or hypersomnia, experience withstanding fatigue, feel worthless, fall victim to excessive guilt, display a diminished ability to concentrate or think clearly, became indecisive, and have recurrent thoughts of death; this fits the criteria of a major depressive episode (DSM 320). In these, I feel utterly weighed down by my heavy emotions. I do not wish to do anything; I only want to crawl into bed or lie on the couch. My mind is consumed by reviewing the factors that make me worthless and unmediated guilt over things that have already passed or that I had no hand in. I feel hopeless and helpless and contemplate the possibilities that death or cutting could deliver. Unlike my hypomania, I make excruciating efforts to disguise this from people around me for fear that they will abandon me, so they rarely notice without extensive emotional probing and prodding. This would classify my disorder as Bipolar II instead of Cyclothymia (DSM 362).

I do also frequently experience the “wellness state” between my cycles. In contrast to the extremes of my cycles, wellness feels like nothing. I feel apathetic, merely mild emotions, and even occasionally dead inside. I feel like an empty, careless shell after the ravenous emotions of the cycles have abandoned me. Wellness is calm and quiet, even relaxing at times, but it feels numb and dull. In hypomania and major depressive, I have vivid dreams and intense thoughts and emotions. Both are completely conducive to my creativity and writing. Depression elicits a multitude of deep ideas, and mania provides the fuel to relentlessly pursue these ideas. My freshman year of college, in a bout of depressive insomnia, I wrote an 80 page story that was inspired by my own experiences with self-mutilation, alcoholism, and depression. It just flowed so easily from my mind. I could barely hold the words in. My cycles cultivate my work and motivate me to pursue it.

So, I fit the Bipolar II diagnosis in that I have history of one or more major depressive episode, have history of one or more hypomanic episode, have had no manic or mixed episodes, that these criteria are not accounted for by Schizoaffective, Schizophreniform, Delusional, or any other unspecified psychotic disorder, and that these symptoms cause distress and sometimes impair functioning (DSM 362). I am also considered rapid cycling because these episodes occur more than four times within a year (DSM 361). I will often cycle up and down within a day. It can be very disorienting and frustrating to be completely in one cycle then have it stripped away and replaced with the other. It is hard to determine my own disposition and feelings when they appear so intense then disappear and are exchanged so quickly. It feels as if there is constantly a whirlwind within me, rearranging and destroying every thought, disposition, and emotion I could have. I am constantly gathering myself back together in the wake of revolving cycles. Yet, I do rarely present mild psychotic features. Occasionally, I experience visual hallucinations or my own voice tormenting me in my head. These were much more prevalent in my late adolescence. I cannot determine if these are precipitated by insomnia or are true psychotic features. They are extremely infrequent and very mild, but they make me question the Bipolar II choice.

Aside from the complicated, fuzzy process of diagnosis, I have had severe difficulty with the idea of a diagnosis itself. The Bipolar is evident, yet I cling to the idea of Borderline so desperately because it explains the self-mutilation I suffered completely for so long. If I am attempting to define and explain myself in these terms, I want a reason for that more than anything. It is unsettling to realize that there is no true way to confirm what I am or could be. I feel like I am clinging to a fraying, wobbling rope when I try to confide in the reliability of my diagnosis. It is flimsy and unstable in a situation that seems variable and threatening enough.

My psychologist has given me a pretty active role in my own diagnosis. I viewed this as rather unconventional when I entered into therapy. I always assumed the psychologist sat in their chair, making quiet judgments on their little pad, without revealing them to the patient until later in treatment. However, my therapist reviewed me in several sessions then presented options for my diagnosis and allowed me to explore and evaluate them. She offered Borderline Personality Disorder and Bipolar Disorder. So far, it has seemed to be more positive than negative. On the negative, I fear that the possibility of a diagnosis being placed in my head could elicit the matching behaviors. Maybe if I start thinking that I could be Bipolar, I would start imagining and attributing things to cycles that were not present; I would remember things that did not in fact happen. However, I am more convinced that it merely opened my eyes to monitor my own behavior and note possible symptoms. I have kept extensive journals my entire life that reduce the problem of memory distortion, and the symptoms I have have been observed by my psychologist and people around me as well, so it is not relying exclusively on my interpretations. Being involved in my own diagnosis has given me a sense of control in my treatment. I do not feel helpless and uninvolved; I do not feel like I am being passively observed by a stranger. It reduces my fear of misinterpretation. So far, my psychologist and I have eliminated the possibility of Borderline based on my lack of extremity, and she seems to agree that I am Bipolar II.

The real problem in all this for me is just the idea of being diagnosed. For at least eight long years, I lived utterly consumed by my disease. I felt it distinguished me from others around me; it enlightened me and added depth to my perceptions; it was an integral part of me, my personality, who I was. To extract that enamored idea from my feeble construction of self and label it as a mere disorder was extraordinarily difficult to consider and torturous to face. It feels devaluing and minimalizing to be explained and confined in tiny, little labels and words. Also, once I began to accept the concept of a diagnosis for me, I was constantly monitoring myself, attributing every behavioral tick or variation to my new neat, tidy label. It became an excuse for everything about me and voided feeling anything for emotion itself. My family does not deal well with mental illness either. One side views it as a weakness and opportunity for ridicule. The other, with its extensive history of mental disorders, is extremely sensitive to the idea. It is a quiet, hushed experience that no one speaks about, and the word “crazy” must not be uttered in any context.

With the Bipolar II diagnosis, my causality can be theorized and traced. As I mentioned, my disease first surfaced eight years ago perhaps in response to my parents’ divorce. My entire childhood yielded no indication of marital problems. Never did even a slight suspicion present itself in my small mind. The only doubts I ever entertained arose from people talking and classes at school, and my parents quickly denied the idea. I discovered that they were getting separated by reading my mother’s journal maybe a week before she moved out. This shattered my entire sense of reality. I was traumatized; my entire life and persona changed irrevocably, and I plunged into a dark depression. After the divorce, I had a very unstable, damaging relationship with my father. The man I dearly loved as a child vanished and was replaced by a hurtful, selfish stranger residing in his body. We fought constantly, and through his altered behavior and treatment of me, he convinced me that I was worthless, not good enough, that he no longer cared for me, and so very much more, whether through direct verbal abuse or implied actions. The most detrimental effect of this situation came from my desperate, sentimental clinging to him based on the relationship we had when I was younger. His side of the family disowned me twice, blaming me for the failure of my relationship with my father. Many of my close friends in high school also betrayed and abandoned me, mostly because of my disorder.

My family presents an extensive history of mental illness. Alcoholism runs deep on both sides, but my mother’s side contains the mental disorders. My great-grandmother was repeatedly hospitalized all of her adult life for Manic-Depressive Disorder, which we now call Bipolar. She was treated with electro-shock numerous times, and my mother described her as returning home dazed and no longer herself. She was later medicated in the 1970s, but never showed any true signs of recovery. My grandfather, though never diagnosed or treated, exhibits blatant symptoms of Bipolar Disorder. He went through extreme cycles of depression and mania as long as my mother could recall. His sister presents Major Depressive Disorder. My mother has an anxiety disorder. Although her therapist never told her her specific diagnosis, she went through years of therapy and is currently on Paxil. One of her brothers has also been diagnosed and medicated for depression of an unspecified sort.

To me, all the elements of this situation adhere to the diathesis-stress model. I obviously have the genetic disposition for a multitude of mental disorders – the diathesis. But none of it appeared or developed until the stress activated, molded, and perpetuated it. I do not see it as merely genes or chemicals or as simply bad life experiences. It is all a contingent interaction of numerous factors. None can be singled out or easily identified. I am the intermingling sum of all my genes and my entire life, and they cannot be separated to determine the cause of my condition.

My treatment options are greatly simplified by my complete opposition to taking medication. I do not believe that a complex problem can be solved simply by popping pills. A friend of mine went to his primary care physician, not a mental health professional, and mentioned during his physical that he was depressed with suicidal thoughts. Without a psychological evaluation or even a follow-up appointment, his doctor threw him on Paxil and let him go. The Paxil did not assist my friend at all and only gave him adverse side effects. This does not seem like real treatment to me.

My creativity and writing are also at stake. I thrive in the extremes of my cycles, and the words pour from my mind and hand. All that evaporates in wellness, so I imagine it would dissolve completely if I chemically alleviated my malady. I did not endure this disorder for years to avoid a positive result. I will not dilute my intensity and drain my writing after all that. I feel dead in wellness, so I fear that I would feel just as lifeless if I was “cured.”

My identity is also still so blended with this disorder. It is a fundamental part of me and shapes my world. I am in no way ashamed of my diagnosis or who I am. I do not view the word “crazy” as an insult. I accept this disorder as a forming force in my life and value how it has made me. It tested me; it made me stronger; it made me different; it gave me my creativity. Perhaps it is not just a disease to be remedied; it is a real part of me that I need to learn to cope with and adapt to. I need to discover how to control it, rather than allow it to dominate me so that I can live with it as a vital aspect of my life.

This puts me into therapy and into this class. Currently, I am in individual cognitive therapy. We discuss my life and confront my distorted perceptions of certain events. I have been identifying and attempting to alter my illogical, damaging thought processes that appear in depressive cycles. I have not invested in therapy that long, yet I do see a glimmer of improvement. Confronting and evaluating my disease in itself was a massive step forward. Mostly, I relish the opportunity in therapy to express myself uncensored to an impartial party. In this, I am attempting to take control of a decision and a situation that has always seemed unmanageable and overwhelming. I am beginning to learn my cycles: what they feel like, how intense they can be, how fast they can shift, and more importantly, how to react and deal with each one and their cycling. I truly have to constantly monitor myself to prevent living at their destructive whims. If I am aware and if I make an effort at control, I can establish more of a balance and adaptation within myself. My goal is to cope with my emerging symptoms and to ride my cycles so that I can live a fulfilling life. I think I can do it, and my education no doubt has helped.


Works Cited

American Psychiatric Association. Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental
Disorders (DSM) IV-TR. Washington D.C.: American Psychiatric Association, 2000.
Davison, Gerald C., John M. Neale, Ann M. King. Abnormal Psychology (9th ed.). United
States of America: John Wiley & Sons, Inc., 2004.

WRITING: beautiful

This piece was written in August 2005. I'm not entirely sure what prompted it. I think it was one of those monologues that just start running through my head that I try to scribble down before the eloquent words vanish back into nothing. I do remember that my self-esteem was still weak at this point; I was sort of coming to terms with what I would never be. This piece ended up prompting an entire related story. I intended this to be the introduction then have other snapshot sections; all would compile to show the development of poor self-esteem. I have written some additional segments, but the project is largely abandoned.

Beautiful

How do you live with the fact that you will never be beautiful, will never be exceptional in any way? How do you truly accept it and settle into the reality of what you are? I don’t know. As much as I stare at my reflection and try to realize my unsatisfactory appearance, or as much as I force myself to study my mediocre life, I cannot stop the flood of fantasies of being attractive or wanted or even loved that my mind constantly pours over itself. I cannot survive on this reality. My mind refuses that this life and this me is truly it.

Average. That is how I have always been described. After a depressed rant over how fat and disgusting I am, my friends would comfort me by saying, “No, you’re not fat; you’re average.” Perhaps there is not other more vibrant word for me. Not big enough to be fat, not small enough to be slender, not attractive enough to be beautiful, not hideous enough to be ugly – I am trapped in a boring middle ground, too average to stand out in any good way or bad.

I have always slipped even farther into the mundane by comparison. I blend deeper into the scenery as I am outshone by the many that are more striking, that are just something more than me.

Somehow I have always ended up with beautiful friends, placing myself constantly beside something better than myself. Ever since childhood, I became the secondary friend, tagging along behind the infectious light of another. Then, with becoming older and sex, I slipped farther down to the unattractive friend, the second or third choice, the third wheel.

I would walk with my friends through the mall or sit with them at the bar and notice men’s eyes move over them with interest. Yet I never felt the graze of those same eyes on myself. Girls are more attractive in groups, but the guys always competed for my beautiful friends and left me in the background.

I would sit silently at parties, a sweating beer in my hand, and watch the drunk guys swarm fascinated around my friend. They all wanted her for her pretty face, her slender body, and her soft voice; but only one could have her, so the rest poured more alcohol down their throats, blurred their sight, and turned to the leftover, the only other female – me.

I have also always been the single one. As my attractive friends cycled through their series of relationships, I watched from the sidelines, sat as the third wheel because I had no where else to go. There is a horrible, burning jealousy that comes from being the extra, unwanted person. I would observe their relationships, listen to their scripted words, and see their physical affection and ruthlessly critique myself over what was wrong with me and why I did not deserve that.

No one has ever wanted me. Not the father who said I got in the way of his life and his girlfriends. Not the family I have never been good enough for. Not the drunk assholes I would lay down with in casual sex to try and fill that aching emptiness inside me. I was what they settled for, acceptable only through drunk eyes, and they never wanted me to stay.

I would feel the invisible touch of someone who truly wanted me stemming from my mind and a fantasy of being something better. But these ghost hands never materialized, and the real, fumbling hands on my body never compared. The movements always felt dead and hollow to me; my screams were always fake because I knew in my heart that I was not what they wanted – I was not beautiful or enough for them.

My family has never been shy in pointing out the flaws or average features in my appearance. But I am again placed beside someone more dazzling. More comparison to people I am unable to live up to. My sister was blessed with the good genes – golden hair, big blue eyes, petite, slender, large breasts, tan – and serves only as the ideal I should have been able to achieve as my family insists that I desperately need diet and exercise, to change my hair color and style, to dress differently.

They disapprove of the tattoos I have had scratched into my skin and the piercings I have had stabbed into my body. But these modifications are the only decent things on me. They are the only things that stand out on their mundane flesh canvas; they are the only things that are not naturally me.

I have learned to hate the mirror. I have begun to loathe that average, unattractive person that stares back at me. She cannot be me. This cannot be my reality. But the mirror is not limited just to that glass – it is in the eyes of every man that looks me over and to another or settles to go to bed with me; it is in the cold side of my bed every night; it is in my family’s words; it is in my failure to compare to those around me. It is everywhere, constantly reminding me of what I am not and what I will never be.

So how do you live with the fact that you will never be beautiful, will never be exceptional in any way? I don’t. I can’t. I choose to stand before that stranger in my mirror with a blade in my hand. I slice through my skin slow and deep. The blood is striking, the cut is beautiful, and, for a moment, I am something exceptional. And in the thick tranquility that follows, I ride my mind to another fantasy where I am better than this.

WRITING: the relationship talk

Some of you may recognize content from my sex blog. This was written in June 2005. It is nonfiction but was composed when I first started having normal attachment and attraction to my fuck buddy. Mainly this was an examination of thought process or linking current feelings to past events and putting them into a distinct voice, a conversation. I think it just sounds like rambling though.

The Relationship Talk

Hey, come here. I need to talk to you. Yeah, I know you’re drunk; I’m drunk too. Aren’t we always drunk? They’ve all gone home now though. Well, our friend is passed out on the couch. Christ, listen to him snore. But it’s just you and me now – the only ones left, like always. I think I really need to finally talk to you. I know we never talk about anything. We pretend nothing is going on, that we don’t care. We wouldn’t want us to feel like a relationship; we wouldn’t want to acknowledge any feelings. But I am so confused. I don’t know what’s going on with us lately.
How the hell did we get here? Maybe you can tell me because I can’t seem to figure it out. How did we go from casual friends who had bad casual sex to this? When did I start feeling something for you? I used to hate you. Our sex used to make my skin crawl, make feel utterly inadequate and unhappy. You made me feel so empty, so worthless with the way you touched me, how you talked to me. You complained during sex, and I would die inside. How could all that develop into this affection, this attachment? You were such an asshole; I was such a bitch. I fucked other guys in front of you; you were right there on the couch. I exposed you to an STD when I came back to you yet again. Did I miss anything? Listen to how bad it all sounds. How are we still speaking? How are we still fucking? After all the damage, how can we manage to care about each other more now than ever before? None of it makes any sense.

I look back over it, and we had the most fucked up non-relationship I’ve ever seen. Granted, I haven’t seen many non-relationships like ours. People usually have brief casual sex – one night stands, maybe a couple months – or they end up in real relationships. Who else just has sex for four years? It’s like we convinced ourselves that if we said we weren’t together and we didn’t care that none of it really mattered; none of it really happened or had an impact. We never talked about any of it – any of the bullshit – until it was over. The vulnerability had to be gone before we acknowledged anything. It caught up to us though, didn’t it? Look at us now. Here we sit, confused, not knowing how the hell we got here.

I guess we were always inevitable though, no matter how we tried to fight it. I was in your lap with my tongue down your throat the first night we met. You were the first I tried to fuck, and even though you didn’t want to pop me, we slept together right after the replacement. We stopped fucking I don’t even know how many times yet always ended up back in bed together. You moved and came back, and we were at it again. I went off and had my ho time to crawl back into your sheets. Always back, always us again. For years. It’s like we couldn’t stay away from each other. It was almost like it was meant to be even though neither of us would imagine or admit it. Both of us were probably completely convinced of the opposite.

We both always fought it, fought any inkling of attachment or commitment or feeling. Maybe we still do. I desperately want to fuck some faceless stranger right now to obliterate these strange and foreign feelings for you. But I can’t. The feelings I want to squelch suddenly reduce me to one dick, your dick.

I’ve never wanted one before. I’ve never been content or satisfied. I’ve never not wanted to explore my other options, be free. I mean one guy would be fun enough. We would play; we would fuck, and I might enjoy it. But I never got that buzz, enough attachment to want just him. I always sought out some fault in him to keep myself at a distance. Plus I always choose assholes.

I do not know how to deal with these feelings because they are not me. I do not do this. I fuck and leave. I have sex and don’t feel. It’s a very simple system, and this breaks it. I mean maybe the system didn’t always work out for me. I always get punished for sex. I have good sex, and then I have a miscarriage or get an STD through a condom or I cringe to think what else. I can’t imagine how much worse it could be with emotions, with relationships. The complications are coming for this; I can feel it.

But I guess you have always been my exception. The only real friend I ever fucked. The only one I actually ever cared about. The only one I kept around, went back to for over two months. The only one I ever was able to sleep with, be physically affectionate with, have aftersex with (and we always had great aftersex). The only one I ever thought about when I had someone else. Hell, I even cared if you enjoyed the sex too. The only many things. Funny how the first guy I started to get entangled with, tried to fuck ultimately ends up being the glaring exception to my pattern of behavior. Chicken or the egg, huh?

Maybe it was that you are exactly like my father. When you were being a dick, you were always him when I hated him; you were him when he was telling me how worthless I was, making me cry as we fought yet another night. But when you and I got along, you were always the him I loved – the man he was when he was a good father in my childhood and after he pulled his head out of his ass when I was in college. Even the similarities in minute mannerisms would terrify me. You both talked shit the same; you both liked the same sports teams; you both swooned over the same celebrity ass. It was practically like seeing the same person, hearing the same words come out of two different mouths. Maybe that was where the attraction started – the attraction I denied all along. They say all girls are ultimately attracted to the traits of their father – their first example for men. I got kind of screwed with that situation. It was easy to reject when you were being such an asshole, to say it was just the sex. Now you’re not that asshole, and I really feel the attraction.

I don’t want to. I don’t want to feel for you. I don’t want to even consider being in love with you. After our past, the twisted and painful path that got us here, I don’t want to consider anything more substantial; I don’t want to risk getting hurt or hurting you again. Could you honestly see us together? Two pathetically independent people in constant emotional denial attempting a relationship. Please, we would kill each other. So why do I feel like this? If I know I don’t want it, why does it pop into my mind? I just want us to stay friends, stay right here. But we just cannot seem to stop fucking.

But what does it matter? I’m leaving, right? Anytime now I’ll have a job, and I’ll be moving. Sure it’s only 45 minutes away, but it’s still away. I need a change, and you have been my only constant with sex, so attempting anything between us would be counterproductive. Right? I refuse to let you be a reason for me to stay. If I didn’t stay for my best friend or family, I stay for nothing. Besides, knowing us, no matter how far I move, no matter how long I stay away, we’ll fall right back into fucking. It will be like no time passed; it will never end.

I don’t know what I want. The smart, logical part of my mind – as small and unconvincing as it is – screams that it is all a bad idea. That we never should have been together. That I need to finally actually end it and start over. But these feelings are foreign and new to me, and I can’t deny that I like parts of them. I feel whole and light and twitchy. I care, and suddenly emotions are awakening my nerves during our sex. Can I ignore all that? Should I?

What do you want? I never can tell. I swear you alternate behavior faster than I do, and I’m the bipolar one. What is your excuse? You seem interested; you seem avoidant. You seem affectionate; you seem distant. One night you’re all over me, and the next I barely exist. I can never tell what you want, but I’m sure it’s not me. I’m sure it was never me. It has always seemed like you settled for me, like you never really wanted to be fucking me. Maybe that’s why I was always so defensive; maybe I was such a bitch because I felt so inadequate and insecure. I wish I could read you. I wish I knew if you felt anything, if you wanted anything with me since I am undeniably reactionary and tend to follow how you act. You alternate; I react. We go back and forth together.

But we don’t talk about anything present. That would be a symptom of a relationship, and we can’t have that.

I just want to know where I am so I can decide what I want, what I’m going to do. Always waiting on you. I can’t be trusted to decide for myself. My opinions, my feelings alternate and fade and shift with my cycles. Depressed I may want you, manic you may not exist. They all seem real, but who knows what one really is? Which mental chemical cocktail is real? No way to tell for me. I ride my mind back and forth and follow how I read you. But I never ask you questions. I keep quiet because I don’t want you to be able to see that I might feel something, that I may care. I can’t show vulnerability. I follow your signals and hope lately that it places me under you at the end of the night. It’s a ridiculous game we play, isn’t it?

They all talk about us, you know. They all have their opinions after all these years. My gay boy doesn’t approve of me fucking you. He doesn’t think you’re hot enough, but he is also completely and utterly shallow. But he’s also convinced we’re going to get married. Every time I mention your name, there’s that dreadful word out of his mouth – marriage. But we both know he’s crazy.

Your friend lectures me about you when he’s drunk. He asks why we don’t just get together, why we don’t just have a relationship. He is baffled by the fact that he’s never seen us kiss. None of them really understand, but then who else have we ever seen who have maintained the fuck buddy situation for so long?

My friends usually either tell me to stop sleeping with you because it’s bad for me or to just get into a relationship with you – either way, what we do is unacceptable.

One friend claims we have relationship, couple behavior but are so completely awkward with it. I don’t know about that. We used to do so well at not showing anything, not seeming affectionate or sexual at all. Maybe that was before things changed. Is it showing now?

I’ve only told two people about my new feelings. It took months to say it out loud; it took that camping trip for me to know for sure enough to utter it. I told one because I needed someone else to know; I needed to be able to talk about it when it was driving me crazy. The other – I told mainly to distract her from the stress of deciding to have an abortion. They both saw it coming, much more than I did at least. Maybe I was in denial from the very beginning.

I never really expected any of it the first night we met. The night of my alcoholic baptism into the circle, my first keg party, the first time I was really, truly shitfaced drunk. The entire environment was new for me. I had been lost in my head, my trauma, my bullshit for so long, and here were these new people who didn’t know me, this beautiful beer that washed away my mind. Instant addiction. The tap flowed; the keg dwindled; everyone started pairing off. My best friend had vanished into the basement to fuck a guy. I remember my other friend asking you why didn’t you kiss me, and your tongue was in my mouth. God, I crawled up in your lap, and we made out for hours. And I left those two hickies on your neck. The hickies I hear about to this day. Two little marks turned into being bruised from your ear to your knee. See, you like to exaggerate too.

My first guy came onto me for the first time that night too. He had been unsuccessful with all the other pussy; you and I had taken a break, and he swooped in, rubbing my leg and beckoning me to the basement. He was definitely, completely my type. But I wasn’t going to make out with two guys in one night.

But then you didn’t want to fuck me. Every time we got drunk together, we made out, we played, but you didn’t want to pop the cherry. You were scared I would fall in love with you. Christ, that’s almost hilarious now. You didn’t want to take my virginity, but I was dying to rid myself of that handicap, so I fucked my first instead.

My first was brief, boring, unimpressive. I liked him enough before sex but after sex not much. We were acquaintances, and I didn’t know any better. He got bored with me and said he was going to stop having sex until he had a girlfriend. Obviously I was not that girlfriend. And I came back to you for the first time.

Whatever it was with us was still there. As we were the last ones up at every party, we played again. Virginity gone, it was only a matter of time before we had sex. God, do you remember our first time? Alcohol, morphine, back pills. Could we have numbed ourselves anymore? I honestly can’t remember too many specifics. My best friend and her boyfriend went out to smoke, and I was up in your lap, sucking your face again. You said we were going to fuck, and I said ok. I don’t think you actually expected me to agree; I don’t think I actually expected you to follow through.

And for a while, it didn’t seem like you wanted to. It was the slowest foreplay ever. Did you really not want to fuck me, or were you just so drunk? Maybe you never really wanted to have sex with me, and the alcohol just got the best of you. We kept making out and playing, and I kept asking if we were actually going to have sex. Then we did – for five hours. My friend walked in on us when I was on top. It was messy and unsuccessful, but we were so drunk.

I didn’t tell you it was only days after I miscarried my first’s child, did I? The blood, the blinding cramping had subsided for only a couple days when we had sex. Probably not the best decision on my part. I was so completely fucked up – the amount of pain killers I was downing, the guilt, the confusion, how much I kept drinking and drinking. Maybe that permanently polluted us from the beginning. How I felt with my dead baby became linked to sex with you, even though it shouldn’t have been. But I needed to be distracted. I needed the thoughts and the guilt fucked out of my mind. Yeah, look how well that worked. It took me almost three years and therapy to let it go.

Somehow I was shocked that we actually had sex though (although I should have always seen it coming), but I was ok with it. You were the one who didn’t seem happy with it. When I saw you after, you didn’t touch me, didn’t show interest. When my best friend asked you if we were going to have sex again, you said you weren’t going to have sex until you had a girlfriend. My firsts’s words coming out of your mouth. Obviously again I was not good enough to be that girlfriend. Even if I never wanted to be that for either of you. Then you moved to Louisiana or wherever.

That was the first time you pissed me off. That was what initially tainted our little situation. You had sex with me once then didn’t want to touch me again. That goddamned girlfriend line. You made me feel inadequate and used, and I had expected more from you than my first – you were a better guy.

Then you would come back to visit. Of course, we always ended up together, messing around, and you expected sex. Were you fucking kidding me? You rejected me and left then came back just expecting me to put out. No, I teased; I played with your head to make myself feel better.
I was resentful, being that I had always been not good enough, worthless to everyone in my life – family, my father, and subsequently any guy who ever touched me. I think that is where it started, that is where our non-relationship went to shit. I was hurt, and then you would hit my buttons, and I would overreact, and you would react to that – and round and round we went, amplifying and distorting the entire way

You truly were an asshole though. Sometimes I couldn’t believe it. I would love to recount details and specifics for you, but you know me; I blur and block the particulars of any hurtful situation. Maybe that’s why you always think I’m lying about it. Your memory is horrible, and mine hazes anything that would prove it actually happened. Our past fades away between the two of us. I just know you made me feel so worthless and inadequate, like you were settling for me and really didn’t want me at all, like I wasn’t good enough in any way with your little comments and talking down to me. Your jokes aren’t always jokes, are they? Half the time they’re the truth you won’t risk saying seriously.

The complaining during sex was the worst though. My self-esteem died right there beneath you. Who bitches during sex, honestly? If I had any doubts about the quality of my sex or if I was good enough, they were definitely resolved as you whined about having to be on top while you laid on me. Hey, it is not my fault your dick was too big and hurt me. I can’t move my cervix for you, and your bullshit really didn’t motivate me to improve the sex for you. God, I hated you because you made me feel so horrible about myself. I was too weak to think for myself on that.

Partly, I blame my insanity and my disorder for it all. My mind was so distorted, so already turned against me that your bullshit was simply fuel for it, justification to hate myself. Maybe if I was sane, I would have never interpreted it that way. Maybe you were just joking. It wasn’t your fault that I was crazy, and it wasn’t your fault that I had a rape and a dead child and destructive trauma still flaring in my head – I know all that now – but you were still a dick.
I swear that phase went on for years – me hating you but still fucking you anyway, hating myself the entire time and swearing I was going to stop. No wonder my friends say it’s a bad situation.

Sex became just another one of my self-destructive behaviors. I had self-mutilation and smoking and drinking and reckless driving; why not self-defeating, degrading sex too? As much as I shudder to say it, I think the majority was my fault – my misinterpretations, my overreactions, my fucking broken mind. If I was normal, you would have just irritated me or pissed me off, and maybe I could have left. But then again, you could have treated me better, not been so determined to make it clear to me that I meant nothing and it was just sex. As if I didn’t know.

We do need to talk about when I fucked the other guys though. We remember it so differently. I know you’ll never believe me or really even listen to me, but I want to say it anyway. Ok, I want to try and say it again. We were drunk before, and I don’t think you were listening.

I think I needed to fuck someone else. I needed to know that I could because you made me feel so inadequate, so unattractive. Well, I twisted your bullshit to justify feeling that way. Whatever. I honestly didn’t mean to do it in front of you though.

The first time, you guys didn’t show up at the bar, and that guy came over. A random guy was actually giving me attention, so I took him home. Then you showed up. I didn’t know what to do.
You and I were actually getting along, but there was that guy. He passed out in my bed; everyone left; your ride was out in the recliner. God, I was torn. Something new, something I really thought I wanted, then you and I right there, actually getting along and flirting. I picked you. I decided that I didn’t care about that guy; I didn’t know him. I came onto you. I crawled up in your lap and kissed you – and nothing. You didn’t react. You just kind of looked at me and told me to go to bed and have fun. You kept telling me to go to bed with that guy. So I did. You claim you tried to keep me on the couch, kept pulling me to you. No. You did nothing. You just fucking looked at me and told me to go.

And when the guy started coming onto me, started kissing me, I still wasn’t comfortable with it. I was angry at your rejection, but I didn’t like that you were right out there. I knew you didn’t sleep. But I was pissed. If you didn’t care, why should I? So I had sex with another guy with you right in the other room because you didn’t want me.

The second time, I don’t know. I didn’t know you were going to come out to the bar. You and I had such a good vibe going on that night. I’m not sure what happened. My best friend brought that guy over, and I alternated attention between the two of you. I touched your leg, and again you told me to go. And again I did. I took him home, and you sent me text messages the whole way. I thought you hated text messages. You had no issues with them that night.

We are so stupid. Can we never just say how we feel? Lies, denial, and fucking text messages.
I bet when you ended up in my bed after that, trying to get anal sex and telling me I had diseases to hurt me, you didn’t expect to be right. It’s like you asked for it as much as I did. I do want you to know how bad I feel about it though. As mad as I’ve ever been at you, as much as I might have hated you, I never intended to expose you to anything.

God, I was terrified to tell you. When I actually started showing symptoms and found out for sure from my doctor, I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want to prove you right – that I was just a diseased whore. I didn’t want to lose you because you were my friend and I cared about you. I can’t believe I actually managed to stammer it out on the phone. You reacted so well. When I saw you the next time, it was like nothing ever happened. I loved you for that.

I honestly didn’t expect to have sex with you again after the other guys. But it changed you; me having sex elsewhere made you different. Did you need to see that other guys might want me to actually appreciate me? Suddenly when our sex was over, you became nice and nostalgic, constantly saying how much you liked fucking me. Since when did you enjoy having sex with me? I couldn’t tell with all the bitching.

It’s like we were different people after I had sex with other guys. Things suddenly turned good – you suddenly enjoyed me and seemed interested. You came back after I fucked you over again and again. Why did you come back? Why did you keep dealing with me?

You were in my bed on Christmas; I was in yours on New Year’s. We messed around like we used to. Even though I had sworn against it again, I wanted to sleep with you again. I really wanted to. It was all new. I fought it. I didn’t want things to go back to shit. That was before I found out I had the STD, but part of me was worried that the crazy guy was telling the truth when he said he had HPV after crying to me for three hours and telling me he loved me. I only knew him a week. I didn’t know how much I could trust him, especially when he turned out to be too crazy for me to handle.

But of course, you and I ended up having sex again.

I swear the sex got better. The sex got amazing. The time in my tiny bathroom while my friend’s children were sleeping in my bed – me pinned up against the door with the towel rack in my ribs. The sex just seemed more comfortable, more fluent. We switched positions, spiced it up. There was no bitching. I was able to give you head – for the bet I lost, which by the way, I actually took a dive on – and finally not flip out, not have flashbacks and panic, finally bury what the guy who raped me did to me. It was like a completely different non-relationship with us.

Then there were those flukes. The one morning when we lay in my bed for hours waiting for our friend to wake up. It was the first time I was comfortable naked sober and in the light with you. We spent hours just talking, joking, flirting, cuddling even. We never did that, especially sober the next day. What was that? And camping. Camping was like that morning for a whole weekend. We had good sex the first night, but there was attention and flirting the whole time. We didn’t go through acting like we weren’t having sex and all that when we were sober again the next day. You couldn’t leave the topic of our sex alone. I shudder to say we were like a couple, sharing “road sodas” while we were 4-wheeling, staying up all night together. That’s not us. That’s not how we consistently are with each other. They were just flukes, right?

And here we are. Somewhere I don’t know, a grey area between the messy, unsuccessful sex we started out with and these quasi-relationship, comfortable flukes that keep appearing now. What has changed? I honestly have to think it was the other guys, maybe the HPV too. As pathetic as it sounds, that is when things changed. How the hell did we get all the way here though? Maybe we had to completely fuck it up to start over, to realize how we actually felt. But can something so mangled honestly change and get better? Maybe this is all a bunch of alcohol-induced bullshit too.

But there, I said it. Now you know. Now what? What do we do? What do you think?

WRITING: tell me about your first time

Our sophomore year, when Christina and I shared an apartment, we took a road trip out to California. It was my first time seeing the ocean. On the drive home, this incident occurred. This story was written for my Creative Nonfiction class in college. Christina was in the class, and we each wrote our version of the event without sharing with each other until the end. They turned out very distinct. If she still has hers, I'll post that one too.

The class identified the main theme in mine to be the contrast between Christina and myself. This story was published in the university's literary magazine. It is the only thing I've ever published. I am lazy with writing lately. Enjoy!

Tell Me About Your First Time

The night was dark, thick. The city lights of Albuquerque and the casinos on the edge of town were slowly fading away behind us. The vast desert landscape stretched out all around the car, but it was veiled by the black. It was only the headlights piercing the road and the distant, pale taillights of other cars ahead of us.

Christina sat silent and rigid beside me. The dashboard lights cast small shadows over her face. Her hands were clamped on the steering wheel. She stared straight ahead at the road, her head held tightly up, brow furrowed, lips pursed.

The quiet was heavy in the car; I was choking on it. I cracked the window. The wind howled in and swirled the cool night around us. I lit another cigarette. My lungs and throat would have probably been burning by now, but the beer and raspberry rum still slipped through my veins. The smoke was only sweet.

I looked over at Christina again. She had not moved. I knew she was pissed – she was never any good at hiding her emotions. She was clumsy and awkward when she tried to lie. But I didn’t care. I was too drunk, too irritated as well, to agonize over her anger. I cuddled up in the tension between us and tried to focus on the road and the darkness.

We were only an hour, maybe an hour and a half late leaving Albuquerque. She had no right to be upset. We had been planning to stop in Las Vegas and then Albuquerque on the way home. She knew I wanted to spend time with my friend and her family, and I wanted to drink. I was starting to get the shakes after a week of not drinking. She was fine, perfectly content watching Dave Chapelle on HBO and sitting with us until her boyfriend, Josh, called. Then she wanted to leave immediately so she could be home in time to pick him up from work. Their relationship caused enough problems for us at home. Josh was at our apartment every day and every night. I was either at home alone or with both of them molesting each other. He ate my food and showered in my hot water for free; I would do nothing to convenience him. Besides, if it was her friend we were visiting, we would have stayed unquestionably for hours.

God knows how the two of us ended up with the same name. I never could understand when people mistook us for sisters. Besides the fact that no parents would be so cruel as to name both their daughters Christina, we were nothing alike. She was tall and slender. I was a little shorter, “thick,” with big boobs. We did not live or act similarly either. She worked at a bar downtown constantly while I wasted away my days drinking with degenerates. She had never been in trouble; I was almost off a deferred sentence and had seen court for my friends or myself too often. Her family stayed together and had money; mine did not. All this tension always resonated in our relationship, but somehow it balanced out enough. Josh was the only thing we couldn’t quite resolve. She couldn’t see why it bothered the hell out of me to have him in my apartment every day and around all the time, and I couldn’t understand why she needed him present every second and never wanted to hang out with me anymore. I was always the third wheel either way.

I did not want to go home. I had no desire to leave California, Las Vegas, Albuquerque. She was itching to hurry home to her boyfriend after a week; I had nothing to go back to. I dreaded the identical, tedious days. We had gotten along so well the past few days; I did not want to start bickering with her about Josh once a week again. I didn’t want to return to the pointless classes, the pathetic job, the endless drinking, my empty life. The classes all looked the same, felt the same and could not hold my interest. I did not care about college, only knew I needed for later in life. I worked at an airplane restaurant where my boss hated me and I was lucky to make $20 a shift. The weeks just went in monotonous little circles, nothing new, nothing exciting. I had seen everything at home fifty times before. Why would I want to leave new places and possibilities?

The lights of Santa Fe began twinkling on the edge of the night. My throat felt dead, and my mind deafened me from remaining silent for so long. The alcohol was fading from me slowly. I felt my nerves rising up to my skin again.

“Can we stop at a gas station in Santa Fe?” I finally said. My words seemed so loud.

“Yeah,” she replied.

The tension seemed to vanish from the car. Christina sat more relaxed in her seat, breathed more softly as we pulled off the highway. It just dissolved. I was confused; I didn’t know if she was still upset, if I was still angry, but I glided along with it. Four more hours would be endless in silence.

The gas station was small, rundown, filthy – just like all the others on the way to Los Angeles and back. They all mirrored each other. The same people in the parking lots around the gas pumps, the same products in identical arrangement, the same dry, bored clerks. I cringed as I hovered over the toilet seat in every bathroom.

I could still feel the alcohol faintly as I settled back into the car and we returned to the interstate, but it disappeared rapidly as Christina and I filled the car with our babbling. I was unable to sleep in cars, so I was almost always up, talking with her through her turn at the wheel. She could sleep anywhere instantly. I swear the girl could pass out standing up if she wanted to. When I was driving, the car was quiet. I would sing along to a CD to keep myself awake, knowing she was too unconscious to hear me.

The gloom against the windows slipped by. I could see the terrain in my mind – the dead fields and few trees, the mountains or hills off in the distance – though it was too dark. I was familiar with the stretch to Albuquerque from escaping down to my friend’s too frequently.

The lights of the small towns rose before us and fell behind us, spaced out by the black in between. Fewer cars appeared on the road. We were alone. I smoked cigarette after cigarette, and we talked over our spring break. We reminisced about California, my first time seeing the ocean, staying with her aunt and uncle in Orange County, going to Hollywood Boulevard and Universal Studios, our encounter with the Scientologists. They had conned us into taking a personality test. While Christina passed as normal, I apparently scored low and had to spend over an hour with one of their representatives trying to convince me to let them help me. We laughed about Las Vegas, parking at the Aladdin and walking the entire strip – starving, being whistled at and bombarded by hooker flyers – to ride the slow rollercoaster at the top of the Stratosphere. We left Albuquerque alone, and the conversation shifted to sex. Eventually, we always ended up talking about sex.

“The thing I liked about him was that he was blunt, honest. No lines. No mind fucking. He just said, ‘Hey, you’re cute; I want to fuck you,’” I said.

“Yeah but he was a married crackdealer,” Christina said.

“I know. I know! Technically, he was separated. Why does the crackdealer have to be so hot? The tattoos, good God, the tattoos. I am a sucker for good ink!”

Christina laughed at me. We both knew that I was stupid. We went over her first boyfriend and things she did with Josh. I babbled about different guys, mostly how they sucked. We talked about places, weird behavior, any interesting or comical detail. Home was getting closer.

“Dude, my first time was horrible,” I said. I had turned sideways in my seat to face her, my knee pressed against the center console. “I was so drunk and on my period. We were on his sister’s floor, and I kept hitting my head on the heater along the wall. Oh, it sucked!”

“Oh, God. Did I ever tell you about my first time?”

I could not remember if she had before, so I waited for the story. The car was easing up a gradual hill, moving under an overpass in the middle of nowhere. As we reached the crest of the hill, a breath after her question, she screamed out, “Oh, shit!” and violently yanked on the steering wheel.

I turned my head from facing her only to catch a glimpse of a brown blob in the headlights. The car swerved through the left lane and towards the deep ditch of a median. Christina tugged the wheel again, and we went flying across the highway towards the guardrail. I could hear her saying, “Oh, shit. Oh, shit” as she overcorrected her turn again. The car skidded back and forth over the lanes – ditch, guardrail, ditch, guardrail – the body of the car rocking violently on the frame at the force.

Then the car lost control. Maybe Christina touched the brakes. We careened around. I could hear the tires squealing. My body was pressed into my seat. I felt my hand clutching the seatbelt. The world rotated completely around the windshield. Christina was yelling or saying something. I fell into an observant compliance. I settled into the accident and calmly watched it happen. I accepted that I had no control; I had been in enough car accidents, too many.

The car whirled around and smashed into the guardrail. I heard the metal contort in my ear. My knee slammed into the dash, and the car sprawled across both lanes. The engine puttered and groaned before stalling, leaving some alarm or buzzing filling the car.

We sat shocked for a moment, listening to ourselves breathe to make sure we still could. Christina’s hands were clamped onto the steering wheel, her eyes staring straight out ahead. I gradually loosened my hand from the seatbelt.

“Are you ok?” I finally said.

“Yeah. Are you ok?” she replied, releasing her grip and looking over at me.

“I think so. Shit, we should probably push the car out of the road.”

“Yeah.” Her voice was kind of shaky.

Headlights of a truck and a car pulled up behind us as I eased out of the passenger seat. Pain lit up over my knee when I stood. I noticed the dent in the guardrail and the steep drop into the dark on the other side. I could only think that I used to open beer bottles on guardrails when I was younger. I gimped pathetically around the car as we pushed it back onto the shoulder.

“Are you girls ok?” A man had stepped out of the truck and was walking towards us. The headlights blazing from behind him obscured his face, and I saw only his shape.

“Yeah. We’re fine,” one of us said.

“What happened?”

“There was a deer in the road, and I swerved to miss it and lost control of the car,” Christina said.

“You’re lucky we were pretty far behind you, or we would have hit you guys too,” he said.

I slid myself onto the guardrail as the man called the police. I could feel the cold metal through my jeans, and it bit at my bare hands. The woman from the car had joined us; she knew the man. They were both talking to Christina and to me. I responded but was not paying attention. My mind was wandering along the black banks of the creek so far down on the other side of the guardrail, anywhere but here. It was a sign; we shouldn’t have left; we shouldn’t go home.

The man let us use his cell phone even though we had our own buried somewhere in the car. Christina called her parents, the phone shuttering against her ear and her voice wavering as she regurgitated the story, told them she wrecked her brother’s car. I called no one. My father wouldn’t care, and my mother would overreact; I didn’t want to worry her until I was safe and at home, and it was over.

The ambulance arrived first. The man and the woman knew the paramedics. I kept wondering, where the hell are we that everyone knows everyone? I hated the small town feeling. I hobbled into the cramped back of the ambulance, clean and overloaded with medical supplies. They iced my knee as they asked the same questions, and we repeated the story again.

When the cop arrived, poking his head in and querying us, I knew we were fucked. In my memory, he was a thick man, dark with sharp eyes. His large head teetered on a puffed up chest. A typical cop. But I am not sure; it could be the alcohol tainting his features or the night distorting my memory.

He seemed helpful at first. He talked in a calm, restrained voice, but I saw it waiting in his crooked smile. Christina and I signed waivers after refusing to go to the hospital. I glanced over at the cop quietly mumbling to the EMTs as we returned to the guardrail between our car and his. Then the ambulance left. Our witnesses were already gone. We were abandoned on the dark, empty highway with this cop.

The lights on his squad car were swirling around silently. They danced over Christina’s worried face and our wounded car, flashed over the cop’s uniform. His civilities vanished almost immediately. I could see the power rush over him. He didn’t have to be nice anymore.

“Tell me again what happened,” he said as he paced in front of us.

“There was a deer in the middle of the road, and I swerved to miss it and lost control of the car,” Christina said.

“There was a deer?”

“Yes, there was a deer,” I said.

“Who was driving?”

“I was,” Christina said.

“You were driving?”

“Yes, she was,” I said.

“You know, I looked in your car. I think that seat is way too close for you to be driving.” Christina was only a couple inches taller than me. We never moved the seat when we rotated driving even when we borrowed each other’s car at home.

“She was driving.” I was starting to shout.

“I think you were sleeping, and she was driving,” he said to Christina.

“No, I was driving since Albuquerque,” Christina said.

“When did she start driving?”

“She was driving before –”

“I wasn’t driving. She has been driving ever since Albuquerque,” I said.

“When did you go to sleep?” he asked Christina.

“I was sleeping when she was driving.”

“She was sleeping when I was driving before Albuquerque. I wasn’t driving. She was driving after Albuquerque,” I yelled.

I knew what he was doing. I had played this game many times with many cops before. They were all the same. The cops that made us dump out an 18-pack in Palmer Park, the drunk cop and the asshole that gave us our underage drinking tickets downtown at our friends’ apartments, all the cops that had shown up at my accidents, the cops that snuck up on us on Gold Camp Road. All the same. He was trying to confuse us, trick us into confessing. He was trying to mind fuck us. Christina had not been in any car accidents; she had not done this with any cops before. I feared she trusted the police. He was confusing her, making her stumble over her words. I wasn’t going to let him do this. I wasn’t going to get duped into anything. I had done this too many times. We were telling the truth. But we were young; we must be lying. We were females; we really must be lying. I started ranting.

“Miss. Miss, come with me.”

He took my arm and guided me to his squad car. He opened the back door and pushed me to the seat. Amazingly, this was my first time in the back of a cop car. I wedged my legs in, and he shut me the door. My knee was throbbing against the partition and grate in front of me. The melted ice was dripping over my hands and down my pants. I watched him saunter back up to Christina. He had his hands on his fat hips and his back to me. Christina was shaking her head and moving her hands around while she spoke. I couldn’t hear them, just the gospel music in the car. I couldn’t make out the song, nor would I be able to ever identify it. The car just filled with “Praise the Lord!” or “Sweet Jesus!” every few minutes. It made me want to claw out my eardrums.

I looked out again. Christina was frustrated; she was crying. My chest tightened; I couldn’t breathe; I needed a cigarette. I was so scared she would slip. We were telling the truth, but he was trying to manipulate us. I didn’t know if she knew how to do this. I didn’t know if he was going to trick her into saying something. I kept thinking, oh, god. I’m fucking going to jail. I’m going to get a D.U.I. when I wasn’t even driving. I’m so fucked. I’m going to jail. The one time I was actually doing the right thing, actually being smart, and not lying I was going to get totally screwed. Figured. My father had just told me the day before not to call him if I got in any trouble because he wouldn’t bail me out; he jinxed me.

The anger was rattling around and pumping through me when the cop returned to the car. He opened my door and crouched down beside me. I eased my crippled leg out.

“Have you been drinking?” he asked.

This was the hard question. Do you lie when you’re underage? How do you answer this one? I thought for a second.

“No.”

“When was your last drink? I can smell it on you.”

Shit.

“Albuquerque, over six hours ago.”

“You were driving, weren’t you? She was asleep, and you were driving, and you nodded off at the wheel, didn’t you?”

“No. I wasn’t fucking driving! I drank in Albuquerque, and she drove us home!”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Believe me or don’t. It’s the fucking truth. I don’t know what the fuck else to say.”

“Miss, can you please watch your language around me.”

It had to be the gospel music. I just looked at him, and he shut me in again. I was shaking. I was so frustrated and deprived of nicotine that I wanted to scratch his goddamn eyes out. Why wouldn’t he just listen? We were telling the truth. I didn’t want to go to jail for something I actually didn’t do. I felt trapped, helpless. My heart was pounding, and my eyes were burning.
He led Christina to the car and put her in the front seat. I was the bad one who yelled and cussed; I got stuffed in the back. She looked at me as he walked around to the driver’s side. Her cheeks were puffy, eyes red, and there were tear tracks down her cheeks.

“We’re so fucked,” I said quietly.

The cop dropped himself into the car and crammed himself behind the steering wheel. He made us recite our information and punched it into his computer. God, I wanted a cigarette. I couldn’t think about anything else. If I was going to jail, why waste time and torture me with this atrocious music?

“All right,” he said. “I think you’re both lying. I think you were driving,” He looked at me in the rearview mirror, “and you were sleeping.” He turned to Christina. “There was no deer. You just passed out at the wheel. That seat was too far up for her to be driving. And how did you hit your knee in the passenger seat? I can give you a D.U.I., and I can give you reckless endangerment for letting her drive.”

“Why the fuck would she let me drive if I was drinking, and she was sober?” The alcohol was back on my tongue.

“Miss!”

“I’m sorry. But why would she let me drive?”

“I don’t know. It happens all the time though. Some guy will get drunk at a bar and won’t let his buddy drive his car home. They get in an accident, and the driver gets a D.U.I., and his buddy gets in trouble for letting him drive drunk.”

“But she wasn’t driving,” Christina said. He raised his hand.

He continued on with a lecture about drinking and drinking underage and drinking and driving. I just stared at the window and saw the smoke from a cigarette glide along the other side.

“I think I’m going to give you underage drinking,” He looked at me. “And you careless driving.” He pointed at Christina.

“Without having me blow?” I didn’t even care anymore.

“You admitted drinking to me, and I could smell it on you. Are you on anything else because your pupils are really dilated?”

“My pupils are always dilated.” I stared out the window and waited for my ticket. I was so close to getting off deferred sentence for my last underage drinking ticket but oh well. I was sure the court would have to waive it without an alcohol level from the breathalyzer.

The lecturing began again. His voice and the gospel music were shredding my brain. My skin was itching. I was feeling claustrophobic. I barely heard a word he babbled or anything he asked Christina or how she answered. I just wanted out. Somehow, eventually, he ended up giving us nothing and letting us go. I was not paying attention, so I don’t know how it happened. Did he fail at scaring it out of us? Did he finally believe us? Did he not have enough proof to actually give us tickets and haul us to court? I didn’t care. I felt the cool air on the skin and stretched my poor knee as I gimped back to our car.

The cop followed us to the next gas station. Apparently, we were just slightly south of Pueblo. The smoke felt so smooth and sweet in my lungs as I sucked down my last cigarette. I bought more at the gas station – filthy and small like the others. Christina called her parents again, and I just walked past the phone to the bathroom. I could tell them all about it tomorrow.
I felt a great relief over another cigarette as we started back on the highway again. It was shocking that the car still moved. Just a dented frame and maybe a bent CV joint. The depression near the trunk didn’t even look that bad. The ride home was slow though. Christina didn’t want to overexert the wounded car – a good idea. The whole experience wouldn’t really change anything. We would go home to the same days in the same lives, and it would just become a good story to tell, another excuse to hate the police, a reason to fear deer. We ranted blindly over the cop as the road raced underneath us.

“He was trying to mind fuck us,” I said.

“I know. He was asking all those questions, and I was getting confused, and I didn’t know what he was talking about.”

“Yeah.” I turned towards her again, and my knee touched the dash. “Damn it! That’s how I hit my knee.”

“And he could have talked to those people. They saw us get out of the car. You on the passenger side and me on the driver side. The paramedics knew them.”

“Shit, I didn’t think of that. It would have been helpful to think of all this when he was bitching at us. He said you were sleeping. You weren’t sleeping; we were fucking talking the whole time. I can remember the last thing you said before it happened.”

“Me too.”

I sucked the last drag of my cigarette and tossed it out the window. The sparks exploded on the road behind us. Christina sighed and rested her head against her arm.

“So, tell me about your first time,” I said.

WRITING: the christinas

Christina and I lived together in the dorms our freshman year of college and shared an apartment our sophomore year. While we ended up hating each other when we lived together, now we are fine and get together for dinner every Thursday.

This piece was written for my Creative Nonfiction class in college. Christina and I took this class together. This was a writing exercise; I forget the prompt, but the class laughed.

The Christinas

God knows how the two of us ended up with the same name. Whatever the name “Christina” means or connotates with me is definitely not the same as with her. The Christinas, people call us as if sharing a name blends two people into one. We don’t look, live, or act alike really in any way, but somehow that identical name makes us duplicates or melded together. Are the Christinas here? Do the Christinas have a comment? What do the Christinas think? teachers ask us. What if we don’t have a collective opinion? Do we then have to stop and consult each other to form one? We are still two separate people with two different minds.

Are you sisters? people have asked us. What? We don’t even resemble each other at all, Christina freakishly tall and slender, me shorter, “thick,” with big boobs. We are almost the same age; we would have to be twins. We couldn’t even pass as fraternal. But more importantly, what parents would be so cruel as to name both their daughters Christina? This isn’t George Forman we’re talking about here. Come on, people.

Christina moved into our dorm room in the middle of fall semester freshman year. Sarah met her and said she looked like a cross between my ditzy friend from high school and my sister, and she had my name. I was worried. I didn’t meet her myself for several days. I heard her in the hall as I was waking up for class and opened my door.

“Hi, I’m Christina,” she said.

“I’m Christina,” I replied and shut the door.

I am not a morning person, and it was too early to be polite. Unfortunately, after that meeting, it took Christina weeks to come out of her room and be social with us. She was scared she had a bookworm and a bitch for her roommates. That gradually faded away as the three of us bonded and became Sarah and the Christinas. It sounds like an oldies group. Then Sarah left, and I was terrified that another Christina would take her place. I could not handle three Christinas, but thankfully it ended up being a hermit named Kona.

After Christina and I started hanging out regularly, neither one of us wanted to be introduced second. Hello, I’m Christina. Oh, I’m also Christina. I’m Christina too. It felt so unoriginal to follow with the same name, like you were copying the other. But what the hell could you do? Our parents chose the names.

Also, people often think that when I talk about Christina, I am talking in the third person. Christina got that at the store. What? You’re Christina. Are you talking about yourself in the third person? No. The other Christina. Many of them even know of the existence of the other Christina, even that we shared an apartment. She has the same problem.

We have tried to remedy this issue. Nicknames don’t work. Both of us answer to almost anything that starts with “Chris” – Chris, Krystal, Christi, Christine, Christmas – and loathe being called Tina. It all sounds about the same and doesn’t fix much of anything. Our next attempt was the “Christina 1 and Christina 2” system. It seemed like a good idea; one of us is number 1; the other is number 2. No, no, not so simple. Around my people, naturally, I was Christina 1, yet with Christina’s friends, she became number 1. It switched back and forth with no real consistency until we were like, wait, who am I again? Middle names are also impossible; Christina doesn’t have one. Hello, please call me Marie, and this is Blank. CMB and CM. Nothing can be easy.

The phone has always been entertaining though. When we shared an apartment, phone calls always went, Is Christina there? Which one?, or Is this Christina? Um, yes and maybe no. It got interesting to answer each other’s cellphones. Yes, this is Christina but not the one you’re calling. No, this is the other Christina. I once tormented a telemarketer for a good ten minutes when he called for a Christina but didn’t have a last name.

“Is Christina there?”

“Which one?”

“Excuse me?”

“There are two Christinas. Which one?”

“Um, the older one.”

“They’re about the same age. Which one?”

“The one whose name is on the lease.”

“They’re both on the lease.”

“Ok, the one who pays the bills.”

“They both pay the bills. Which one?”

“Um, ok. Does one have a credit card?”

“Yeah, but she’s not home.”

Click! Good times. What telemarketer calls without a last name, seriously? He had it coming.

Basically, we are eternally doomed to be The Christinas. It’s human laziness at its very best. Why say two names when you can blend two friends into one title? Why distinguish when you can combine together? It’s unavoidable though. There are millions of Christinas out there. They have haunted me since elementary school, stealing and sharing my name in class. Christ, we even have to be linked to Christina Aguilera. They used to call me that when I worked at Tinseltown. God, no. Either way, this cursed name-sharing has given us plenty to laugh and bitch about.

WRITING: memoirs of a cutter

Written in May 2003. I posted it because I thought about how a knife on my skin felt today. I didn't want to do it, but I still thought about it. This seemed appropriate...

I was sixteen the first time I hurt myself. Dismal lights rained down from dented poles in the lonely Wal-Mart parking lot. The creaky, dented Honda Accord stood alone in a wasteland of abandoned carts and blowing trash. The entire lot was quiet and dormant, except for me. I sat on the tattered backseat with the shredded felt of the roof teasing my hair. I could not hold still. Something was throbbing through me, overwhelming me. I was terrified. I kept glancing back at the glowing doors of the building. My friends were in there, trying to waste away another Friday night, but I had stayed behind. I could not do it anymore. I could not stretch another false smile over my exhausted face or regurgitate the lies that I was fine anymore. Something was happening to me that I could not see or understand. My heart plunged low in my chest and pounded relentlessly against my ribs. I thrashed around, sitting up, sitting back, trying to push it down or get a grasp on it. Hot tears singed the backs of my eyes and forced their way in warm tracks down my cheeks. I was aware of my rapid breathing and the inaudible mumblings falling from my lips. The nerves over my entire body ignited. I could not see. I could not think. The world faded away. Adrenaline throbbed through me and the skin begged, it screamed, and it pleaded for pain. Everything seemed to fall into place as I fumbled frantically for the lighter and slid it into my hand. I did not even smoke, but I had a lighter. It seemed like Fate. My skin tingled in anticipation while the flame impassioned the surrounding metal. I closed my eyes and breathed. Then, in one abrupt and clumsy motion, I pressed it to my fleshy stomach. Everything stopped. I did not breathe; I did not think; my heart stopped beating. I no longer existed. It was an eternity in one little second. The sensation was amazing, burning at contact, then sending goose bumps racing over the rest of my body. Everything drained from me, leaving me feeling nothing: an amazing and absolute nothing. That one scalding touch calmed me and silenced all the ravenous thoughts tearing at my brain. And this one awkward, desperate decision changed my life and me completely.

In this parking lot, sitting in an empty car, at this moment, I became a “burner.” I cannot say that I did not see it coming. Like all diseases, it appeared gradually, manifesting only in minor scrapes from keys or my own fingernails. There were no real marks or any blood until that first burn. Looking back now, after being so consumed and familiar with the condition, I cannot recall how it first infected me. It is not a minimal transition between simple depression and hurting one’s self. No model was present for the behavior. I never even knew this behavior existed. No one around me openly did it, and it certainly was not portrayed in any media. I can remember being utterly terrified by it though. It was like losing control, as if something had secretly sprung up inside me to push me toward destruction. The apprehension quickly faded, and unfortunately I became comfortable with the conduct. In this, each action, each event had to surpass the last. It was similar to a drug addict needing a larger hit to attain the same high. There is no doubt that this “self-hurting” is a severe addiction and equally progressive. As it spread over my mind each day and teemed on my nerves, it overtook everything.

While I did not completely comprehend my own new addiction, I continued to fall victim to it. It was sheer emotion, void of logic and forethought. It fed and developed in my confusion and weakness. In the wake of each burn, while my thoughts were briefly clear again, I would question my motivation. The entire concept of physically hurting myself was foreign and hushed, even embarrassing. Suicide popped up on public service announcements and in classes, but I had no desire whatsoever to kill myself. The hurting was utterly different, distinctive. Was it for attention? Was it to distract from my emotional depression? The disease had to advance enough for me to reflect on it before the answer became apparent. Despite popular inexperienced opinion, it was definitely not for attention. I craved the marks, yet in the scrutiny of other eyes, shame and embarrassment weighed on my chest. I concealed the marks and perfected my ability to lie to disguise their origin. No, the driving force was a combination of two things. Distraction was the main stimulator: the way the physical pain temporarily cleansed my mind and left me feeling euphoric. My demons tortured me unrelentingly, tearing and clawing at my heart. Agonizing thoughts rocked in my skull, deafening me. My skin would just beg, scream, cry for anything to make it stop even for a second. The physical pain did that. It hit reset inside me and gave me a moment to breathe. Yet, closely correlated to this was my desperate need to express what rose up inside and consumed me. Regardless of the fact that I have always been entirely infatuated with writing, this always seemed to be too bid or too vague to be confined in words. I needed to expel these wretched spirits and expose my internal torment to the outside world. These two rampant desires molded the illness, balancing each other just enough to persuade me to burn myself.

Pain and violence were not all this disease brought, however. What I learned much later was that a key aspect of this condition is a split consciousness. It is said that the sufferer falls into this split when she hurts herself. The abuser, the victim, or the one that does not protect, and the bystander emerge and battle one another. But I was not aware of this at the time. To me, I had three people living inside me. They were not personalities; they were different versions of me. I called them “the good one,” “the bad one,” and “me.” And that is what they were, and the corresponded perfectly with the proposed split consciousnesses. I would feel one way, have certain strong thoughts and opinion; then it would dissolve into completely opposing, yet equally strong feelings, thoughts and opinions. It was infuriating because I could never be confident or trust how I thought or felt. Nothing was consistent. There were hallucinations as well. I can vividly remember my first and reoccurring one. They ran simultaneously with my self-hurting. I would look down at my forearms, and they would be horribly slashed and blood poured from the wounds.

All of this was absolutely overriding. But the factor that made it more difficult to combat or to face was that it was invisible; I’m not even sure if it has a real name. “Self-hurting” is all I’ve ever heard it called, although it is linked to Borderline Personality Disorder. I thought I was alone in my behavior: a freak, weak, pathetic. Disbelief and misunderstanding appear in the majority of people. It seems unfathomable to most, as I imagine it was to me before, to conceive of someone hurting herself. In the beginning, while I fumbled to get a grip on my malady, I was ignorant enough to confess my sins to those who inquired. I even reached out for help. Quickly, with each cringe and close-minded remark, I learned to hide my soul and its infection. Most often, I heard the wretched piercing words: “you just do it for attention.” That simple phrase robbed my expression of any meaning my mind had produced for me and classified it as a pathetic excuse to get people to glance in my direction.

These misunderstanding, this obliviousness became the vehicle by which I lost many of my friends at the time. Either they did not understand my ailment and remained too stubborn to allow me to share, or they were unable to deal with my disorder and abandoned me. To this very second, I can plainly see my closest friend, the person I spent every high school day with and confided everything in, blankly stare at me after I had burned myself yet again. She would not lock eyes with me. Her mouth moved, yet the words lingered behind. Her voice, calm and quiet, said, “I just can’t deal with this anymore.” My heart shattered, and my eyes instantly welled up with tears. If she could not deal with it as a bystander, what was I suppose to do? How was I supposed to deal with it now? The urge nipped at my nerves as each close friend shared a similar response. In the most desperate time of my short life, the darkest period when I needed the most help, I was forsaken. I was left alone with my rampant illness as my alleged friends turned their backs to me and ignored my pleas. This taught me to be silent. It educated me to the glaring fact that there was no help for me; there was no sharing of my sickness and no easing of the pain. I plunged deeper into the clutches of my addiction. The hallucinations flitted across my perceptions, and depression outstretched its decay further in my body. My consciousnesses cycled uncontrollably. I was drowning, choking on the artifice of my clever illness. Nothing was what it seemed anymore. Words would push at my teeth, claw at my lips to cry for help. Yet, with the past rejections ringing silently in my ears, I swallowed it all down and let the infection spread.

Midway through my “burning period,” after my behavior had weeded out my friends and condemned me to solitude, I was reeling for alternate actions. The self-hurting lay heavily on top of me and continued to contaminate more of my life. It was beginning to again terrify me, and I needed something to fend it off. I picked up smoking cigarettes and drinking in an attempt to quench myself of my affliction. In retrospect, smoking was definitely no the most intelligent method to stop hurting myself. I mean, who logically would give a burner something that burns as a crutch? I would spark the slender cigarette and slip the filter softly between my lips as the feeling surged up in me. The skin on my arms would inflame in persuasive begging, and I would inhale deeper. The weak nicotine could never overpower the urge. It merely placed a cigarette to be extinguished on my pleading flesh at a convenient time. Alcohol did not provide an excellent remedy either. The more inebriated I became, the easier I made it for the disease to force me into submission. And being drunk cycled my consciousnesses even more frantically.

However, these unsuccessful attempts at different diversions did shift me into a new social circle. In light of the abandonment I suffered with my previous associates, it became a defensive reaction to keep these people at an emotive distance. I was able to be around people to keep the disorder at bay without making myself vulnerable. I avidly avoided excessive disclosure even though they responded differently to my condition. For months at parties, I was known as “the girl who burns herself.” The label slipping from drunken lips was not an insult; it was playful and harmless. They were not running away from my illness or me; they were curious. They did not know how else to react. One guy in particular was completely fascinated by the entire situation. As the alcohol would flow through our systems and the nights would wear on, he stumbled over to me, and an endless slur of questions poured from his mouth. His eyes lit up and his arm crawled over my shoulders. It was honest interest with no vile intent, no piercing judgments. I could simply smile as he told me that he would go get me an iron or some other hot thing to play with. It was the first time my sickness was verbalized, but I was not ashamed.

My skin seemed to calm at acceptance. Whether they understood me or cared about me was irrelevant. I was a freak to them, but they refrained from harassment. More important than any of this though, one of my grade school friends came through for me. Through the smoking, drinking, partying, and hollow distractions she supported me. Her expressions were soft and concerned when she spoke of my ailment. She did not claim to understand; yet she did not dismiss the behavior as insanity. We had discussions, and she pushed me to allow her to help. She remains the only person that has ever witnessed me hurt myself. And she still has not fled. In addition to that, I received possibly the best news since my self-hurting arose. After almost years, I was finally compelled to confide my problem to my longest friend. I have known her since I was three years old. Her voice was low and wavering through the phone. With each word she uttered, I pressed the receiver tighter to my ear. She did it too. She had been cutting herself and suffering the same torment the entire time I was. An indescribable relief flooded through my body. It paralyzed my tongue and stopped my heart. I was not alone; I was not the only one. Someone out there, my closest friend, completely understood this illness. We made a promise at that moment that we would always call each other when the urge overwhelmed us; we would help each other heal. This marked my first recovery.

Months slipped by. The self-hurting lay dormant, festering below my ribs, warded off by the emotional support now offered by my friends. I actually deceived myself to the point that I thought that by simply ignoring it I had overcome it. However, it was hiding inside me, smiling at my arrogance as it waited for a new opportunity to reclaim its control. Life and Fate conspired and gradually delivered enough stress to accommodate my disorder’s reemergence.

The relapse descended on me rapidly and with more intensity than the original ailment. My sickness had adapted from my brief escape and gripped me with renewed strength. This also facilitated a chance for the self-hurting to attain progression. Burning had transitioned from distraction and expression to mediocrity. The addiction had consumed me enough to need a larger hit.

The first time I cut myself I was intoxicated. Drawing blood and slicing deep into the flesh fully classified the advancement of my malady. Burns never allowed the hot blood to flow unless I was tearing a scab away. The cut was an entirely alternate sensation. A burn bit hard then lit up the nerves all over my body, but a cut was different. It produced a concentrated sting and allowed the blood to escape and stream from the wound. The urge would overtake me, and I would quietly clutch the knife in my palm. My arms and hand shook in anticipation. I would stand directly in front of the mirror, staring at the dead eyes of my reflection. It was as if she was laughing at me, coaxing me. Her voice pounded in my head, telling me that just one more time would be enough to make me deal with it all. Then, it would be five slices and a few weeks later and she would convince me again. Cutting completely altered my behavior. The cuts took longer to disappear than burns and I followed my rule; I could not introduce a new traumatism until the last was completely healed. This gave me greater breaks between events. It also left deeper, darker scars. This was the change my illness needed to accommodate itself.

The cutting proceeded for months and completed the other half of my sickness, complimenting the burning period. Each instance was exhilarating and an amazing relief. It was reminiscent of my first burn in that lonely car. It pushed past my immunity and re-indulged the craving to ease my mind and momentarily transport it out of the dark depression. But identical to the burning, it slowly lost its excitement and simultaneously its effect. I was again dropped back into my depression, craving a distraction. It became apparent that self-hurting was an endless destructive cycle, and it was time to heal.

November eleventh marked my anniversary: twelve long months since my last slice. I still feel the menacing feeling clutch my heart and my skin still burns and begs for the blade; yet for the first time since this infected me I feel stronger. I feel like I am moving toward regaining control of my life. I am unsure as to what exactly has altered in the situation to facilitate my ability to heal. Maybe I grew up. Maybe it’s the recent investment in mild therapy. Yes, I am still depressed. Yes, I still hate myself. Yes, my life is still painful. However, the masochism has again become mediocre. It has again lost its overpowering control. It seems like the progression of the condition has inevitable give me a window out and I am running towards it with all I have, being violently pushed by the people who have remained with me.

This mental disease stole three years of my life, expelled unworthy friends, and changed me irreversibly. I would never sacrifice my experience. It has broadened my perceptions and brought me to appreciate my life and the calm moments I find. More friends of mine have revealed the same behavior. While we all engaged in it nearly simultaneously, shame and social taboo sealed our lips. However, we now have each other to share the pain with. I can even see it in strangers. Their marks reflect mine and I see myself in their eyes. My body still advertises the scars: a burn on my hand, three burns on one wrist, five cuts on the other, five more slices across my forearm, five cigarette burns down my leg, and all those that have faded. Yet, I do not hide them ashamed anymore. They provide a reminder as to where I have been and what I have to be stronger than. Self-hurting no doubt made me who and what I am today.