1. I don't remember where I got the idea to use scissors. But I feel no relief as I drag them across my hips. They are barely scratches, but if I press hard enough I can get a few droplets of blood. I still feel the same intense sadness and hurt that I felt before and now I have these cuts to go on top of all of that. I do know not to do it on my wrists though, too obvious. Maybe someday I'll feel the relief wash over me.
2. Came home from school today and did it. I still don't feel anything. Am I hoping I will? Am I just doing it so that I won't feel so alone? Am I doing it for attention? I don't know. The pink mark rises over my flesh, maybe an inch and a half long. Its hard to break the skin when you have no real desire and only a dull pair of scissors.
3. At his house. With her. We're all watching a movie. I don't know why I'm here. I need to do it. I need to feel something other than this aching, blinding sadness. I use the tab off of a soda can. I go into his bathroom and I run it across my skin several times. So I can feel it. So I can see the marks so clearly. And still, there is no escape. Still I have all this sadness. I still don't know why I'm doing it.
4. Got into a fight with her. I told her I was doing it. Told her I was cutting. I told her over AIM. I wanted her to know she was hurting me. That she was forcing me to do this to myself. I go hang out with her and him later, stop at home quick to get something. Run upstairs to find all the scissors gone in the bathroom. Damn, I'll just have to do it later. Go to the bowling ally where the misery increases. I have to do it again. I have to. I use a soda can tab. I feel some relief, but not enough. Not enough to justify it. I go home and find myself in big trouble.
5. I have just gotten out of the shower. My mother comes in the bathroom, demands to see the marks. I show her. She's so angry. I want to tell her I'm sorry I did it. I want to tell her I didn't get anything out of it. But all I do is let her get angry at me, let her get sad and frustrated that she can't help me and this is what I have turned to.
6. I'm talking to my therapist. I can't even be honest with her about my reasons for doing it. She asks me about my cuts. I snottily shoot back that they are scrapes, not cuts. She doesn't react to my attitude. I don't tell her that I only did it because I thought it would help. Not because I wanted to, or really even had the urge to before I started. I don't tell her I'm ashamed and it's stupid. I own it, like I feel I should. I try to take pride in my actions and hope that it validates how much pain I'm in.
7. I don't do it anymore. I try not to think about it. I talk about it sometimes, but never in a glorious way. It was dumb. I never got the sweet relief I felt I had been promised. Instead I screwed things up at home and made everyone at school think I was crazy. I guess that's what I get for being a cutter that never really was one.
No comments:
Post a Comment