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I remember the exact night that I started cutting myself.
I had always held a lot of emotions in. being the loner, I did not have any friends to unload on. I did not feel close enough or comfortable enough with my parents to share it with them either. so I allowed all these things to build up inside. my depression, fueled by the sexual abuse. I had been attempting to cry myself asleep. like so many other nights before. I felt a burst of destructive enegry. not to punch the wall. or pound into my pillow. but towards myself. to tear out my hair. scratch my nails down my face and across any exposed skin that I could find. to slap my face. pound my fists into my head. it scared the shit out of me. I had never before felt anything like this inside of me.
so I quietly climbed out of bed. I did not want to wake my sister. we shared a bunk bed. me on the top. I liked the view. I could hide from everyone up there. huddled against the wall. I creeped to the corner that housed our desk. flipped the lamp on to the low setting. I pulled a boxknife out of my purse. one that I had accidentally taken home from work. I stared at the blade. gleaming in the low light. I studied my hands. my arms. my legs. searching for the right place to drag the silver across my skin. I chose the back of my hand. right beneath my knuckles. I did not dig in very deep. though I wanted to be destructive in the worst way, I did not want much pain. I slid it across slowly at first. no longer crying. I braced myself. then watched in awe. as watching that blood took away all of my anger. I sliced faster. over and over. until I was crying again over what I was doing. it was scary. it was new. it was a release. it was wonderful. it was ugly and beautiful. all these things at once. I couldn't take it. but from then I was addicted.
I got up to cutting at least five or six times a day. mostly at night. so I would not have to explain the injuries to anyone. I cut mainly the insides of my arms. my fingers. the back of my hands. my wrists. my parents noticed my hand injuries. I explained my clumsiness at work with the boxcutter. it escalated. I will spare those details as well. eventually, on one beautiful summer day. I confessed to my parents. everything. the sexual abuse. they never knew. the cutting. they suspected that. my feelings of depression. I got help. the first time I cut was around november '99. the last time was june of last year (06/01). it was a long, hard journey to get myself the help I needed and the recovery I desired. but since august '01, I have been off medication and out of therapy. I have never been prouder of myself.
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