An open letter: To Write Love On Her Arms
I have never felt compelled to put this in a time line. To tell this to anyone in this way until now.
Where do I start?
How bout the first time…
It was 5th period. Social studies, which in retrospect seems kind of ironic. My seat was in the in the left back third of the room. At that time I wasn’t a very striking person. Short, boy cut mop water blonde hair, round face and baggy clothes. Seventh grade and awkward as hell. Class was about half way over and I couldn’t stand it. I was fidgety and foggy all at once. I heard the teacher droning on and on but I never heard what she actually said. I took a safety pin off my bag and underneath my desk, under my white tube socks scratched the last part of class away. I still don’t know where I got the idea from or why I took the safety pin in hand in the first place. And I never thought that those shallow cuts would lead to something far more significant down the road.
I didn’t even know what self injury was then.
The following year I participated in getting a “smiley”. It involves keeping a lighter lit until the metal tab is burning hot and then branding the surface into your skin, producing the effect of a smiley face. Which again, seems ironic in retrospect. I still didn’t understand what I was doing but it didn’t feel like a problem. At home I would take my moms sewing scissors when I needed them. Poor hot candle wax on my cuticles and bang my shins against the desk absent mindedly.
The next two summers are a blur. Alcohol and drugs. I had a screwdriver every morning on the way to the summer school bus. And usually some whiskey when I got home. It burned but I didn’t stop. I also used several caffeine pills in combination with several antihistamines and various OTCs to reach a desired level of what I called ‘deadweight’. my body would feel so heavy that it was impossible to deny that I was anywhere but in it. Enter, weed. Smoking in the back of a wrangler on the way home. In the desert behind my house. Fairly steady stream of alterations to my brain.
I didn’t pick up a knife until after we moved almost a year and a half after Id begun my assault on sobriety. I had been unpacked for about a week and actually excited for my first day. My fresh start. Until the night before that is. I suddenly realized that it wasn’t going to be any different than before. I almost threw up. Instead I snuck into the kitchen and stole a small serrated paring knife. Its yellow laminate handle deceptively pleasant. I barely drew blood. Barely broke the skin. But I wanted the sting. And that’s what I got. Right below my hip. I returned the knife the next day.
It went on like this for some time. Senior year something shorted out. Exploded. Turned off. However you want to think about it and things changed. The knife I had stolen now lived in my room between my books. I just held it a lot. I cut, scratched, peeled far more often. I felt like a pressure cooker. Building, building, building, building. Release. Building, building, building. Release. Building, building. Release. Building. Release. Building. Release. Never ending cycle but never once fully portrayed to the rest of the world. As far as I know my friends were unaware of what I was doing and my family for sure was oblivious. I had a good front face. I could be happy and I could have fun. It just didn’t last very long and that void would threaten to swallow me up again.
Graduation. College. Moving again. Over 100 miles away from home and the comforts there of. The crack in the dam could no longer hold and I fell apart. I “graduated” to razor blades. Steak knives. Broken glass in moments of desperation. I alternated between never being able to sleep and never being able to get out of bed. I had this twisted logic. My cuts were like barbed wire wrapped around my body. I kept them visible but not abundant. Enough to make even the most understanding of people uncomfortable. I was defensive, misguided and even a little proud of the effect. I created so many scars in such a short period of time that I couldn’t quite keep up and pretend that I was maintaining control. There was no control. It was all impulse and need. Urgent and clumsy. Scattered and broken.
I dropped out and moved home where the cycle continued to spiral and rage. There was no ending. Definitely not one I ever saw. Id occasionally get lost in booze, drugs or sex but I always came back to the blood. The secrets and the lies. My self made hell. I was so comfortably uncomfortable there. Waging a war on my skin. Counting the tears like wounded soldiers. Mentally flogging myself for giving in, just so I could do it again. Circular logic that feels more like an endless spiral drilling straight into the ground just waiting for you to meet it with a spectacular crash.
I cant say I didn’t know what I was doing anymore. I knew full well what I was doing and what it was doing to me. I knew it. I denied it until I was blue in the face. But I knew.
I firmly believe photography saved my life. It gave me a purpose and an outlet for the burning in my heart. It was by no means a cure. I still struggle daily. I am not ashamed. I am proud I’ve survived this long. I still haven’t found the support I believe I would need to lock that Pandora’s box away again. But, I have found you. You’re organization. I’ve never wanted to tell my story or be a part of something like this tidal wave you are creating. You’re direction is so simple and yet so startling. Alarmingly, Love as the answer never occurred to me. Typing that right now hurt a little. How could I have forgotten the power of love???
Thank you for reminding me.
Just, thank you.
<3 jen
Where do I start?
How bout the first time…
It was 5th period. Social studies, which in retrospect seems kind of ironic. My seat was in the in the left back third of the room. At that time I wasn’t a very striking person. Short, boy cut mop water blonde hair, round face and baggy clothes. Seventh grade and awkward as hell. Class was about half way over and I couldn’t stand it. I was fidgety and foggy all at once. I heard the teacher droning on and on but I never heard what she actually said. I took a safety pin off my bag and underneath my desk, under my white tube socks scratched the last part of class away. I still don’t know where I got the idea from or why I took the safety pin in hand in the first place. And I never thought that those shallow cuts would lead to something far more significant down the road.
I didn’t even know what self injury was then.
The following year I participated in getting a “smiley”. It involves keeping a lighter lit until the metal tab is burning hot and then branding the surface into your skin, producing the effect of a smiley face. Which again, seems ironic in retrospect. I still didn’t understand what I was doing but it didn’t feel like a problem. At home I would take my moms sewing scissors when I needed them. Poor hot candle wax on my cuticles and bang my shins against the desk absent mindedly.
The next two summers are a blur. Alcohol and drugs. I had a screwdriver every morning on the way to the summer school bus. And usually some whiskey when I got home. It burned but I didn’t stop. I also used several caffeine pills in combination with several antihistamines and various OTCs to reach a desired level of what I called ‘deadweight’. my body would feel so heavy that it was impossible to deny that I was anywhere but in it. Enter, weed. Smoking in the back of a wrangler on the way home. In the desert behind my house. Fairly steady stream of alterations to my brain.
I didn’t pick up a knife until after we moved almost a year and a half after Id begun my assault on sobriety. I had been unpacked for about a week and actually excited for my first day. My fresh start. Until the night before that is. I suddenly realized that it wasn’t going to be any different than before. I almost threw up. Instead I snuck into the kitchen and stole a small serrated paring knife. Its yellow laminate handle deceptively pleasant. I barely drew blood. Barely broke the skin. But I wanted the sting. And that’s what I got. Right below my hip. I returned the knife the next day.
It went on like this for some time. Senior year something shorted out. Exploded. Turned off. However you want to think about it and things changed. The knife I had stolen now lived in my room between my books. I just held it a lot. I cut, scratched, peeled far more often. I felt like a pressure cooker. Building, building, building, building. Release. Building, building, building. Release. Building, building. Release. Building. Release. Building. Release. Never ending cycle but never once fully portrayed to the rest of the world. As far as I know my friends were unaware of what I was doing and my family for sure was oblivious. I had a good front face. I could be happy and I could have fun. It just didn’t last very long and that void would threaten to swallow me up again.
Graduation. College. Moving again. Over 100 miles away from home and the comforts there of. The crack in the dam could no longer hold and I fell apart. I “graduated” to razor blades. Steak knives. Broken glass in moments of desperation. I alternated between never being able to sleep and never being able to get out of bed. I had this twisted logic. My cuts were like barbed wire wrapped around my body. I kept them visible but not abundant. Enough to make even the most understanding of people uncomfortable. I was defensive, misguided and even a little proud of the effect. I created so many scars in such a short period of time that I couldn’t quite keep up and pretend that I was maintaining control. There was no control. It was all impulse and need. Urgent and clumsy. Scattered and broken.
I dropped out and moved home where the cycle continued to spiral and rage. There was no ending. Definitely not one I ever saw. Id occasionally get lost in booze, drugs or sex but I always came back to the blood. The secrets and the lies. My self made hell. I was so comfortably uncomfortable there. Waging a war on my skin. Counting the tears like wounded soldiers. Mentally flogging myself for giving in, just so I could do it again. Circular logic that feels more like an endless spiral drilling straight into the ground just waiting for you to meet it with a spectacular crash.
I cant say I didn’t know what I was doing anymore. I knew full well what I was doing and what it was doing to me. I knew it. I denied it until I was blue in the face. But I knew.
I firmly believe photography saved my life. It gave me a purpose and an outlet for the burning in my heart. It was by no means a cure. I still struggle daily. I am not ashamed. I am proud I’ve survived this long. I still haven’t found the support I believe I would need to lock that Pandora’s box away again. But, I have found you. You’re organization. I’ve never wanted to tell my story or be a part of something like this tidal wave you are creating. You’re direction is so simple and yet so startling. Alarmingly, Love as the answer never occurred to me. Typing that right now hurt a little. How could I have forgotten the power of love???
Thank you for reminding me.
Just, thank you.
<3 jen