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.