Copyright, Dingo

When I was in Elementary school, this lady used to take care of me after school, since my parents were both, and still are for that matter, workaholics. She had this huge Iguana, named Meech. I used to let him crawl up my arm, and long, thin lines of red would appear. It was the perfect excuse to cut, although I didn’t know that when I was that young.

When I was in seventh grade, I got this boyfriend who was a high school drop out. He was older than me, and a punk, and he cut like a mofo. I thought it sounded interesting, and although it shames me to say it, I wanted to fit in. I started using scissors to cut things in my right leg, but I justified it by saying that I was only doing it because he did. We broke up eventually, as every teen relationship does, but I continued to cut. A good majority of my friends are self-injurers, but I have this bad gut feeling that some of them only do it because I do. Occasionally, they’ll pull down my jacket, or lift up my shirt to look at my cuts and scars, and it’s really embarrasing to me, like I’m a freak odyssey.

I’ll stay up late at night, sometimes cutting, sometimes not, usually for two reasons:

  1. I am afraid to sleep
  2. I can’t sleep

I debate inside my head while watching cheap late night tv. I tell myself I only cut to fit in, that I’m not a “real” cutter. Although that seems grossly illogical. Wouldn’t the fact that I cut show some deep seated insecurity to fit in? Or that I have deeper troubles?

I have always bordered on an eating disorder. Always been borderline too skinny. Always had people remark on how tall and skinny I am. I take pride in the fact that I am skinny, because it takes a lot of effort to go for as long as I do without eating. And when I get really hungry, I cut. I burn myself with lighters, and watch my skin blister up.

During my eighth grade year, I got extremely upset one day and went crazy on my arm with a shaving razor. Each cut had a twin directly next to it. And they were deep and many. The cat excuse was obviously out. It wouldn’t have been so bad except that I live next to the beach where the only two seasons are summer and not summer. So long sleeves was the only answer, and they would need an excuse on their own. And then there was still PE. How would I dress up and wear short sleeves for PE? How could I take off my shirt in front of the other girls with my angry and red arm? It was not something I could easily hide.

I am amazed by the fact that the people who don’t know are so extremely ignorant. I started self injuring six years ago, and the only people who know are those I tell, and I only tell those who will not act in my best interest. I have never been treated, and have decided that cutting is the dirtiest, most shameful, brilliant thing that I do. How can I stop when it sustains me?

Perhaps this was too long, or too short, or too confusing. Whatever.


Permanent location: