A cutting story

Dave over at Struggling had a really good post this morning on cutting and what led up to it, and how it made him feel. It reminded me that I haven't shared my cutting story.

I always used to cut. As long as I can remember, I used to take the bread knife in my parents kitchen and press it into my wrist, making little blood bubbles. I eventually had little scars, and I couldn't figure out what they were from - I had blocked most of that period out. I progressed to having an exacto knife in my room, and cleaning it every time with betadyne. I would cut my fingers open, and draw on the walls of my room with blood. I would write poetry, and then cover it up with posters. I also had notebooks full of drawings in blood.

When I was 23 I did the worst damage. I hadn't cut since high school, but something led me to it that day. My mom cuts. She cuts deep, with razor blades, and always ends up at the hospital. I had recently taken away her blades while she was away, and didn't know what to do with them, so I put them under my bathroom sink.

I was out that night, getting wasted with my friends. My bartender friend and DJ roommate had to stay at work, so Emily, her sister and I went back to my apartment to drink more. And then Emily laid it on: you're wasting your life; you need to get out of here; you're blah, blah, blah. I felt so awful. I started crying, and I never cry. Her sister dragged her out of there.

I collapsed onto the floor of the kitchen, crying harder than I'd ever cried. Suddenly, I thought of cutting to make the pain go away. That adrenaline rush makes the depression disappear, if only for a minute. I went into the bathroom, grabbed a razor, and did what I used to do: I pressed. I had never used a razor before, and didn't understand the damage it could do. I looked down, and all I could see was a broken tendon and the fat cells in my wrist. I immediately knew what I had done, and put my hand over it to hold in the bleeding. I ran to the phone and called 911.

The paramedics didn't seem to care. They bandaged my arm, and slowly walked me to the ambulance. I showed up at the hospital, and it took hours for someone to see me. The doctor sewed me up without anesthesia, probably because I was already drunk, and told me, "If I ever see you here again, I'm not going to help you." I was already devastated, and hadn't stopped crying yet.

They took me upstairs to the psych ward and locked me in for the night. I couldn't stop crying and by this time I was wailing. They gave me a sedative, and I woke up the next morning crying all the same. I called my dad. I didn't want to. In fact, it was the last thing I wanted to do. Suddenly, I had lots of visitors. I didn't want to see anyone; I was so embarrassed. But they all came anyway. Everyone who loved me showed up. And they always show up in my life. I knew then that I could never do that again, it was too risky.

And so now when I feel like cutting, I go get a tattoo. It provides that same temporary relief, that same adrenaline. I can't even be around razors anymore. So don't worry about me; I'll always remember that night. I have the scar to remind me every day.