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Home > Personal Stories > I Need it. I Want it. I Love it...

I Need it. I Want it. I Love it...

Copyright, Anonymous

I remember the first time I took a razor to my wrist and slashed the blade horizontally across my skin. I was in the sixth grade then. Now I am a junior, still very young, and still very plagued with this scarring obsession. I started because I was infuriated with the world and people around me. After the first mark, and seeing the blood, flooding at the edges, I became so calm. So eerily calm and happy that it frightened me.

From then on, everytime I felt upset, angry, confused, frustrated, sad, ashamed, guilty, lonely, ugly, fat, stupid... happy even, I cut. I cut during the day, I cut during the night. I cut when I was at school, a birthday party, shopping mall. I was a cutter, and I loved it. I've attempted suicide 3 times in my short life so far, once, almost successfully. But when I cut, I do not cut to end my life, I cut because it helps me get through pain and saddness, as well as anger. When I am angry, I become violently angry. My motto to myself is, "If I can't make you bleed, then I will make myself bleed." In other words, if I can't hurt or cut the people making me upset, then I will hurt myself. Which is ultimately better if you think about it.

In the beginning, I would cut once a week, or even just once every few weeks. But as I got older, and as the pressures of highschool became more intense for me, the mutilation I subjected myself to became worse... severely worse.

I know what you're thinking. "She probably amputated her leg or something." No, I can honestly say I never amputated anything, even though once in the ninth grade I started cutting off my earlobe, but decided not to finish because I wouldn't know how to tell my mom what had happened. But starting in the ninth grade, I felt as though my life was on the edge, and my sanity was on the line. For the next two years my mind had engrossed itself in a sort of apathetic state. I didn't feel happy, or afraid, timid or weak, sad or confused. No,I wasn't sad, I was depressed and so utterly alone and isolated from the 'course of human events.'

I didn't care about anything. I didn't care about my friends, or my family, or my work at school (although for some odd reason I managed to pull A's and B's in all honors courses). And the way I made up for that enormous void in my life, was through cutting. Soon, the cutting became more intense, more deep and bloody. The entire day, my mind was preoccupied with worries about "what could I use in this room?" Everyday, my schedule went as follows: I woke up in the morning for school; I took a shower (cut myself with razor blades); Went to school (cut myself with the spiral wires from my notebooks); Went home, did homework (gave myself numerous papercuts); Went on the computer for a couple hours (and in the meantime, slashed at my body with a screwdriver); And finally, before going to bed, I'd take out my most favorite, my most beloved toy... a glass chard from a broken mirror. This was my prized possession, mostly because it cut so effortlessly. I would slash back and forth anywhere on my body that I found particularly numb that day, and seconds after the first incision, it poured out like a stream into a lake.

I have so many scars. Many deep, many still healing. I love all my scars. They are like battle wounds to me, and I'm proud of them. When I feel sad and there is no way for me to cut, I just hold my wrist, or lie on my arm where the scars are, because they comfort me. I love them. They're my children.

The cuts all range in size from a pin-puncture wound, to a small chunk of my thigh, to a 13 inch laceration from my wrist to the middle of my upper arm, to a deep slash in my hip. That one was fun. That night, I felt so overwhelmed and I just needed to see blood. So, I went into my bathroom with my glass chard, raised my left arm over my head, and quickly but deeply, slashed my hip. The feeling was so heated and stinging, but not content with my work; not yet anyways. So I slashed again, and again, over and over again. Then, I felt something wet drip down my leg and onto my feet. I looked down. I was standing in a puddle of blood, and I didn't know it. I looked at the gash I made. It was gaping open, as if something right out of a horror film. The blood was piling to the rim of my flesh, then ever so slowly running outward, then dripping fast down my leg to the floor. I felt relieved. I felt calm and happy. I loved it. But all at once I got scared. It was still bleeding, and I didn't know what to do or how to make it stop. Everytime I moved it bled even more. Finally, as a last resort, I took piles and piles of toilet paper and pressed hard against the cut. After applying pressure for about 10 minutes, it started to slow down. So I wrapped it with a face cloth, secured by masking tape I found in the cabitnet, then I took more toilet paper and cleaned up the mess on the floor. That night was the best feeling ever. It was orgasmic.

I love the color, of blood. Every time I cut it filled my mind with images. I needed to see more and more of it. So I would keep cutting. It poured out so fast, and the pain felt so incredibly good. The pain was pleasuring to me. I love it so much. The pain felt so good, that I would sometimes cry from the feelings of happiness I would receive from it.

I don't exactly know why I was so obsessed with mutilation. Maybe it was because I was really depressed; or maybe it was because I felt so empty and my life was so full of void and unhappiness, that the feeling I get from cutting myself made up for that empty feeling. I don't know. But I was addicted. I never had to be hospitalized for any of the cuts that I made... even though sometimes I think I should have been. If you saw me now, without bracelets or pants or a shirt on, you would see the scars. I can't wear a bikini. I can't wear shorts or a tank top or a tee shirt even, without applying coverup on the scars for 20 minutes. On my wrists, I wear bracelets. Big, thick bracelets that cover my arms. I am not a 'punk' kind of girl, nor am I 'gothic' or into 'hardcore rock' music. But people see me wearing my arms all the way up with bracelets, and call me a poser, because I don't like heavy metal or punk, and yet I still wear the bracelets. Little do they know.

I am just an ordinary girl. I have never been raped, or abandoned. I dont know why I feel the way I do. I just don't know anything anymore. I've thought about the genetics aspect. Two of my aunts were placed in institutions for mental diseases, and my grandfather and father have both suffered from bipolar disorder and sever depression. I try to tell myself that it will all pass, like it did with my dad when he was sick. But I just don't think that is going to happen. I see no future for me. And so I continue to slash at my wrist and my body, and will continue to cover it up with coverup and bracelets.

It's been 3 weeks since my last cut. I have been feeling more adequate and secure with myself. I am almost happy. But I know it's all coming back. I'm in school again, and I know the same inadequate, isolated feelings will come back, and I will cut myself to make up for it. Cutting, in the long view, has stopped my from doing things that I want to do. I can't wear 'sexy' clothes without putting coverup all over my body. I can't take my karate classes anymore because the outfits do not fully cover my wrists, and people have questioned me about it. My mom and sister, along with a few of my friends have noticed it. My mom just yells at me, and tells me that "this kind of violence is not allowed in my house" and other bull like that. I have to wear bracelets, and I hate them with a passion now. I have to be carefull not to raise my hand fully, or rest my head on my hand at school for fear of someone noticing the scars. I am ashamed of my problem, but with all the obstacles in my way, I still will not stop. I want to cut. I need to cut. I love to cut...

© 2002 Ratatosk

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