I cut myself. In reality, it probably looks more just like a scratch. I do like to use a razor blade. If I can, I’ll buy proper industrial ones- I can get a 10-pack delivered in 2 days with Amazon Prime. If the urge is too immediate, and I don’t have my stash, whatever ladies razor I have to shave my armpits and legs will suffice. I’ll need a good pair of scissors to break open the plastic encasing and then I’ll have three little blades of varying sharpness and rustiness to contend with. I was visiting a friend once and had to secretly destroy hers. I acted stupidly sheepish when she confronted me. What grown ass woman copes like this I ask myself repeatedly. I bought a massive supply of individually wrapped alcohol swabs and so the ritual of cutting begins with wiping down the metal, although I’ve never been sure if it truly accomplishes the goal of warding off an infection. It’s a ritual of self-harm so efficacy in containing harm is irrelevant. I started with my left wrist, a logical place for a right-handed person. Horizonal lines. Why? It’s so cliché. The area is sensitive, and it delivers the sensation, the release. Almost always, three lines. Three, a number I believe holds some meaning for me, even though at the point I’m cutting I have decided my life is bereft of any meaning. The cuts or scratches must lead to blood. Just a trickle. The sight gives me a wave of calm. I’ll slap the cuts afterwards, an attempt to expedite the adrenaline rush I anticipate.
After the left wrist, there was the thigh for the summertime. I once experimented with my upper arm, only 2 slices, thinking it might be more inconspicuous, I could blame it on running into a tree branch. It garnered more attention than my wrists ever did and scarred badly. For the most part, no one ever notices, looks or asks– efforts at hiding are pretty unnecessary. You’d have to carve “help” in your forehead before it served as a “cry” for attention. I eventually tried both wrists. Vertical when I decided I was ready for suicide. I pushed and tried to go deep, but perhaps all the years of keeping it superficial made me too weak to execute the right technique. I called the suicide hotline and told them I was a fraud, telling friends I was suicidal when I couldn’t cut deep enough to actually be. I still heeded advice and went to an in-patient psych ward to be safe. There I covertly cut myself with the thorn of one of the roses my roommate had been given as a get-well gift. I went back to cutting my left wrist until I felt weird pains in my arms, and nervous I had harmed my nerves, I got a beautiful tattoo there as a vow to myself to stop. And a few months later it was back to the right arm. I gave myself fresh cuts before intake at a mental hospital, hoping to strike the right chord of serious threat to myself but not actively suicidal to get me into a more helpful structured day treatment program before hitting the edge again. The insurance company denied my claim for treatment. One day, I decided I would rather cut my neck. Just behind my ear downwards. Unlike my wrists I could barely see the cuts and I had to cock my head to look at them in the mirror. But I would run my fingers down their traces and feel comforted knowing they were there.
I was depressed as an adolescent but the ritual of cutting didn’t start until I was 26. I am 37 and I still self-harm. I moved away to escaped the trappings of my life and to rediscover my will to live but packed my suitcase with a set of 5 razors just in case. When I’m not self-harming, it seems unthinkable to me that I actively break open my skin with a razor. When I am depressed, it’s the most logical and sensible thing I can do to cope. It makes me feel better. I have been medicated through and through. Prozac, Wellbutrin, Pamelor, Ativan, Cymbalta, Provigil, Lexapro, Effexor, Lamictal, Zoloft, Abilify, Lithium. Changing combinations and dosages, sometimes every 3 weeks. The glass slipper never fit. Not once, have I been able to attribute any improvements in my mood to the drugs. The physical side effects have wreaked havoc on my body, I rather bleed than gag every time I brush my teeth. I have been to two 10-day partial hospitalization programs at a mental hospital and one 10-day in-patient stay in the psychiatric ward. I have had therapy once and twice and three times a week. I have had individual and group therapy. I have had cognitive behavioral therapy and dialectical behavior therapy. I have tried light therapy.
And still I cut.
Inside My Madness 