Scarlette Rose


Copyright Scarlette Rose

There’s no real way to stop, I think. I know because I’ve tried. It’s kind of like trying to not eat chocolate, in a way. It starts with just one piece. But you can’t just eat one, you need more. The craving builds, and pretty soon, the whole bar is gone. And then you have to stop, for a while. But the craving is still there. You try to hold it off for as long as possible. Soon, always, something, or someone, happens. You break up with your significant other, someone commits suicide, someone in your family has a heart attack and dies. It always returns. And that night, while you’re either crying in you room alone or just sitting blank faced outside, or you’re doing whatever, you cut again. Or you cram your face with chocolate, but not even enough chocolate will help with the pain or nothingness. We have to go back to the pain. We have to. It’s a craving, a rush, a wonderful time where you know you have power over your own life, that no one else does, and you can choose how and where to end it.

I started cutting when I was fifteen. It was first out of curiosity, and out of a little bit of depression. I had a best friend at the time, who I had a serious crush on. But she would hear nothing of anything but her abusive girlfriend. She carved that girl’s name into her hip, and it disgusted me, and made me want to try. I guess I wanted to see if I could get myself into her favour. It didn’t work, and it was pretty stupid of me. Still, the first thing I cut stays with me (a little patch of my leg, ‘CRY’ written in Nordic runes).

It got worse after the little things that just seem to happen. At night, alone, I’d cut. I’d claim my cats scratched me. And to the eye, it looked like they had. But people began to catch on. I had to hide it, so no one would force me to go to counselling. If there’s anything I hate, it’s asking for help.

Then, June 18th someone asked me out. And I said yes. He and I were both cutters, and it seemed like a decent match. Then he drove one of our mutual friends to attempting suicide and I tweaked. I carved ‘LIFE SUCKS’ into my breasts and multiple other scratches. When he saw what he had driven me to do, he got very nervous. In other words, he cut too. It was kind of a bad circle to begin with.

What he didn’t realise was that I was molested by my brother when I was ten or eleven. When he started pressuring me for things I didn’t want to give, I had to drop him. And he tried to commit suicide, saying I was the best thing in the world and if he didn’t have me he’d die. So, after him walking around with an extraordinarily bloody arm and me with ‘HATE’ carved into my forearm, we both started counselling. He managed to stop cutting, sort of. He only does it for fun now. He’ll randomly burn himself, and will exercise during karate to the point of serious weakness. It’s a game to him.

We’re separate now, have been for at least five months. I don’t regret what I did. I know I had to let him go so he wouldn’t cause me more pain, and I wouldn’t cause him more, either. I still cut. I can’t stop. I’ve got ‘DEATH’, ‘CRY’, ‘LOVE’ and a septagram on my thighs. On my inner cleavage there’s ‘HATE’, ‘LOVE’, ‘PAIN’, and a whole mess of scratches. I have to say I added those last night. Seeing these pictures of people with blood dripping down their bodies just made the urge all the greater. I couldn’t resist it. I didn’t want to.

For the past four months my mother has been in surgeries for a hip replacement. She had severe complications, and has been in and out. They finally thought the infections were gone this week. They weren’t. One came back on Sunday night and we had to rush her to the ER. I hate hospitals. They’re my phobia. She’s been stuck in this particular one for at least three days. They’re now saying she could very well have an infection in her gallbladder. Because of this illness of hers, I’ve done crazy bad things. I get drunk, I smoke cigarettes, I overdose, I have sex, and I cut. I’m not stable, I don’t pretend to be, but I am happy with who I am. I don’t know why, I just know I am.

To those who cut: Don’t stop unless you want to. Otherwise, it’s a hopeless battle. You can’t do something you don’t want to. It’s a tough journey, and I wasn’t strong enough to keep going with therapy and to eventually stop. To those who have stopped, I commend and congratulate you. For me though… I don’t want to.


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