Copyright, Six

I started cutting when I was thirteen. I’m fifteen now. I didn’t do it because I was depressed, or had family problems, or anything like that. I am different. My mom sent me to a counsellor when she found out I was cutting my arm (I ended up passing out from loss of blood one night, so she found out), while I was being “counselled” I found out I had some weird multiple personality disorder, that was the reason for the messages written in a notebook, and the days I had no memory of. I didn’t cut to relieve feelings, in fact I’ve never known how to cry or why people do it at all. I cut because it was fun. I loved the feeling of blood leaking out of my open wounds. I loved the feeling of cold metal against my fragile flesh. It was what I did for fun, (when I wasn’t snowboarding). It was the only thing I could possibly even imagine using the word “love” for. I knew I was disturbing, and people were afraid of me. My best friend ran away from me anytime I came near her. I learnt to hate more, I hated life, but I didn’t want to die, dying was pointless. Living was too, but at least I could bleed while I was living.

I had an obsession with the feeling of pain but it wasn’t pain, it was just a strange sensation that felt, well, good. The word pain means something disliked and harmful that puts people into a situation they don’t want to be in, so I guess pain isn’t the word to describe what I felt.

I eventually hooked a boyfriend (it’s not that hard, I’m not horribly ugly, but I’m also not the prettiest person in the world, but I am very, very skinny). He thought what I was doing was bad, but he promised that he wouldn’t tell anyone about it. He was the first person I didn’t mind being around. He wasn’t your average guy either. He was two years older than me. Had a tri-hawk, and four or five piercings, but that’s what made him so attractive to me. I ended up breaking up with him seven months later (yeah, that’s a long relationship for me) but we always have been and always will be great friends. After he left me, he started to burn and cut himself, he tried committing suicide several times, all the while telling me what he was doing to himself, and I was encouraging him because he was another person who enjoyed the same things as me.

He eventually got kicked out of his school and started going to an alternative school for basically the screwed up kids. He is still suicidal and gets in trouble for drug usage and starting fights. I still see him occasionally and he takes me out to dinner or a movie sometimes.

I decided that there was nothing wrong with what I was doing so I’ve started back up, I have a beautiful collection of knives and razors and much other sharp objects. I slice open the bottom of my foot now. Every time I step down I can feel the blood spurt out of the deep crevasse in the sole of my foot. I can feel the blood soak my shoe and sock, and that’s what keeps me going every day (when I’m not too weak) but it’s always nice to feel that way. I don’t see what’s so wrong with it as long as I’m not killing myself.

I know I seem crazy, but I’m really not. You might not not understand me, but if you do, you are a very sane person and I wish I knew you.


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