| You may want
to sit down and take a load off... this might
take a minute or two.... As long as I can
remember, I have loved playing rough... getting
dirty and bruised and scraped and cut up. Wiping
out on my BMX bike... falling out of trees and
down rocky hillsides... running through raspberry
patches.... I was a Tomboy. I lived for it.
People said that it was very
"unlady-like" but dismissed it as a
childish phase... soon to pass as I
"matured." ...but I wonder... if that
was the start of something more.
I don't know why I self-injure. Many, if not
most, of the people out there have at least an
idea... they were abused, raped, neglected,
traumatized.... I can't claim that.
My family wasn't rich, but we never wanted for
clothes or food. In fact, I never considered us
poor... it was others who seemed to think so. We
may not have gone out to eat or to the movies
every week, but we went to the beach on the
weekends or ran through the sprinklers at home or
raced our bikes around the neighborhood.
I should define "we." My mother,
brother, and I.
My mother divorced my father when I was two. I
don't remember much from then... of course... I
was two... but I do remember flashes of
scenes... of a yard... or a face... or a smell.
Anyway, from preschool on to seventh grade, I
usually had an average of two friends a year. Now
that I look back, I see that my friends were
always the ones on the edge of the cliques... the
"weirdos." Although, back then, I never
really cared who I hung out with... as long as we
got along. The "weirdos" just seemed to
have more fun.
Somewhere in there, my mother got remarried.
He ended up being a jerk so she divorced him
after a year. To my memory, it literally seems
like a week.
Then, when I was nine, and in fifth grade, my
mother got remarried again. This time it stuck
and they're still together today. I also got a
half-sister out of the deal.
Eighth grade was a bad year. My step-father
didn't have a job and I was the chosen new kid /
fresh meat / outcast at school for one of the
cliques. I had one friend that year... another
outcast.
We moved to Nebraska after only one year there
[thank God]. That next school year, I entered
ninth grade... high school.
I say my first SI was at 13 because that's the
first instance of purposly harming
myself that I can remember. However, as I said
before, I've always felt... proud [?] of my
falls... knowing that one scar was from climbing
a tree and another from wiping out on my bike...
knowing that I had broken those toes on the
fireplace and my arm at church [true].
I don't remember the date... it wasn't too
long after the move to Nebraska though. It
started with my step-father's bowie knife I had
found during the move. I loved that knife... the
blade... everything about it. I used to carry it
around... enjoying the weight of it on my
belt....
I don't remember why I scratched the tip over
my arms that one day... just to see what it would
feel like... to test my courage... I don't know.
But it was like a magnetic pull that drew the
blade closer... and I just remember that it felt
good. I scratched four long light lines on the
underside of each arm. I liked those lines...
like a wild animal had tried to claw me down, but
had left only scratches.
I never pressed hard enough to bleed... just
scratches that would swell up... leave a small
mark... then fade away a few days later. Once
they faded, I'd do four more on each arm. One
day, in gym class, a boy asked me if I was,
"trying to kill myself or something."
I was shocked... I didn't know what to say.
"No," was all I could answer then.
I stopped scratching myself then. I only had
one or two friends and hadn't really thought of
what others might think if they saw my scratches.
I remember, later that year, I also took a
straight pin and scratched a light line across my
cheek. Again, in the next gym class, a girl
noticed the light scab in the locker room ::
"What happened to you?"
I played dumb. "What?"
"That scratch on your face."
"Oh, nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing."
I stopped scratching myself for quite a while
after that... too many people were noticing.
At the end of that summer, I rediscovered my
seventh grade Christmas present... my pocket
knife. I only made small scratches on my ankle...
but it was enough.
That next year, I was sent to boarding
academy. It was okay and I met my best friend
there... she's the one who inspired me to begin
writing. I don't remember cutting right away, but
I did eventually begin making random cuts on my
legs or arm... as if I had tripped or brushed
against a thorn bush... easy to explain away,
especially with the amount of tromping around my
friends and I did.
Toward the end of the year, after going
through three roommates, I finally had my own
room. My best friend and I were talking as she
used a razorblade to shave off odd threads on her
pants. Another friend joined us and the
conversation somehow shifted to... "what if
it slipped and cut you?" One thing led to
another and the second friend took the razor and
made a light X on the top of her left hand. This
was supposed to impress us, since this friend
would take any dare thrown at her.
Well, hell. That wasn't so big to me. I had
refused to climb down the drain spout attached to
the back of the dorm, but I could do this without
a second thought. I took the razor and did the
same... and was surprised with the ease it took
to draw blood. With the pocket knife, you have to
press harder... with the razor... it was almost
too easy... dangerously easy.
My best friend refused to do it. She was
afraid of sharp objects.
The next school year, we didn't have enough
money to send me back... so I returned to the
public high school back home. The two friends I
had made my freshman year had moved on to bigger
and better things [cliques] and, once again, I
was alone.
About this time, my parents were starting to
get annoyed at my "dark mood" and told
me to get over it. My mother was convinced [still
is] that heaven and hell were in a battle over my
soul... hence my mood swings. My step-father
simply threatened to send me somewhere for ECT
and, being pretty naive, it scared me into
"getting over it." Never changed the
fact that the darkness was still there... I just
didn't pay as much attention to it.
I don't remember cutting that year.
Then we moved again... and I don't remember
cutting then either. In fact, it was about three
years until I cut again.
Now, don't get me wrong. The Rush... the
feeling of an inner beast about to explode from
my chest... the flurry of visual chaos behind my
eyes... all those things remained. I remember
mentioning them in old journals. The thought of
cutting just never entered my mind. Instead, I'd
hole up in my room, put on my headphones, and
crank up the volume.
Although, now that I'm thinking of it... I did
take scouring pads and rub my arms and/or
knuckles until they bled a couple times during
that three years... I just don't remember exactly
when. So, it was a broken three years of non-SI.
The resulting scabs look much like wipeout
scrapes or rug burns and, with a younger brother,
wrestling matches were not uncommon.
January, of 1998, I started my sophomore year
of college. I went to a school in Nebraska where
one of my friends was attending. We were even
roommates and everything was going to be so cool.
That was the semester I started cutting like
never before... going deeper and needing more
blood. By the end of the year, I had started
burning whenever I was alone in the room.
I came home for the summer and did not return.
Ever since then, it's fallen into a pattern ::
SI for a few months... stop for a few months...
repeat.
Near the end of 2000, I added punching my
shoulder and, occasionally, walls to my list of
injury methods.
The cycle continues and I still have no idea
as to why I do this. It wasn't until sometime in
the year 2000 that I seriously started
questioning it. I'd never thought of it before
then... it was just something that made me feel
better. The end. But now? I don't know.
There's a lot that goes on in my head that I
really don't want to explore... and yet, I admit,
there's still a part that's curious.
However, as the years pass and I digest more
and more information, I've found myself in a much
better place. It's easier to notice moods
changing... easier to realize what is
happening... easier to find other things to
occupy myself as the storms rage around me.
Sometimes I fall back into old habits...
sometimes I don't. I'm not currently trying to
force myself to stop... that would be
pointless... like boiling liquid in a glass
bottle and plugging up the opening. Until another
vent is found... or something turns off the
stove... this is a part of me.
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