english composition essay 1
Scars
There was no one who could have helped me through that pain. I had learned
over a lifetime, my own way to deal with this misery - to cover it, to hide it. I had
grown accustomed to the violent black wave continuously driving me back
under. I felt like I was drowning, and often I welcomed the end. I recognized that
my feelings were wrong, but I coveted them. They were everything to me. They
were all I had.
That night was preceded by months of desolation and self loathing. Outbursts
of nonstop tears - tears for nothing, for my life that was nothing. "Why can't I just
live?" I would ask. I had constant thoughts of death - visions of myself and
everyone around me dying, especially my parents. I couldn't sleep- when I closed
my eyes all I could see was someone being raped and murdered or someone
flying through a car windshield, chunks of brain strewn across the highway. My
waking thoughts were like a perpetual nightmare.
At my worst, I sought help. Everywhere I went I was told, "All you have to do
is call and set up an appointment." No one understood how challenging it was for
me to get out of bed, or to keep up with the necessary tasks like hygiene and
health. It was nearly intolerable for me to leave my house or to pick up the
phone. I couldn't bring myself to change. The mere thought of starting over
petrified me. I was terrified of trying to be what everyone else professed to be
normal, happy or healthy. I was terrified of failing. In the end I was angry,
frustrated and mortified.
Two weeks after my last attempt to get help at North Central, the local loony
bin, I was still in the same spot. I had been mentally paralyzed for the better part
of twelve years. I found only one way of attaining a reprieve from the relentless
screaming inside my head and the incessant tears at the hatred for myself. I
wanted to punish myself for being broken.
I was in my tiny studio apartment feeling more isolated than I ever had in my
entire existence. It was late July and the air was thick and stale in this box I called
home. The stir of the city below, so unaware. I wanted to cry out my window to
the bustling mass of oblivious beings, " Doesn't anyone see me? Doesn't anyone
care? " I wanted to heave myself through the filthy bay window, crashing two
stories below, just so someone would help me.
Instead I cranked up my music and staggered like a zombie to the bathroom
cabinet. Inside was a beautiful stone jar, smooth and cold, where I kept my
weapon of choice. Of the countless things I had used to assault my body, this one
proved to be unsurpassed. I ran my fingers over the intricate swirling design
carved in the lid as I lifted it and removed a perfect gleaming razor blade. Cutting
stopped the pain. It was the only thing I could feel at times like these. It gave me
something to grab onto when I was spiraling out of control. It was the cement
wall that stopped the car spinning violently on the icy road.
I sat on my bed with my knees up and I shut my eyes tight. My legs were
uncharted territory, a clean slate, a last resort. My arms, as familiar as they were,
were full of past attempts to reconcile. Just do it, you pussy! I screamed inside
my head. Before I knew it I felt my right arm swinging down, my fingers clenched
the blade as it passed over my fleshy thigh.
Immediately I felt a release, but this time it was different. This time it was
followed instantaneously by a feeling of dread. I didn't want to look down. When
I did I saw a cave of tissue and blood. It had burst open, once taught like a
pregnant belly… now the flesh was gaping like that same stomach after the first
cut of a cesarean. Then the blood came gushing out and I howled, "What did I
do?! What did I do?!" I darted furiously back and forth from the bathroom to the
bedroom. One arm flailing about and the other trying to hold the gaping wound on
my leg closed. Crying, I picked up my phone and called a friend. "I'm sorry." I
sobbed over and over again. I told her to come over and bring some band aids.
After I hung up I laughed.
"Bandaids?"
When she pulled up outside I threw on some shorts and went downstairs,
blood still pouring down my leg. As she followed me up to the apartment she
stared at the crimson pools on the floor, careful to avoid them. She held up the
band aids with a tentative smile on her face when she walked in the door. I
carefully sat down on the chair by the window. Her face turned as white as a
ghost when she saw the amount of blood on my leg. She walked over and bent
down. Her jaw dropped and the words "oh baby…" were all that leaked
out.
She helped me to the bathroom and I positioned myself on the edge of the tub
as she tried her best to clean off my leg. It was obvious I needed stitches but by
that time the drug I called pain had set in and all I wanted to do was sleep. So we
worked collectively to pull both sides of the meat together and with five band aids
held it shut as best we could. I told her I was fine and to leave. She kissed my
cheek and with worried eyes, reluctantly left. I rolled a towel up and placed it
between my legs and fell soundly asleep.
When I woke up I felt faint and forgot until I looked down and recalled what
had happened the night before. There on the bed was a clot about the size of a
lime. I thought my insides had leaked out. Upon closer inspection I found it to be
nothing more than a giant lumpy mass of blood. It took over three months for my
leg to heal completely and the scar still serves as a daily reminder of the lows I
once reached.
My life took a different turn shortly after that incident and that path lead me to
where I am today. I learned through group therapy that I wasn't inferior. I
gained something I never had before- self esteem. I pulled myself out of those
swirling dark waters and for once saw the sun. For me, cutting was a lot of
things. It was a way to feel when I had been numbed by pain. It was a means to
bring to the surface the anguish I felt inside. Self mutilation was my mode of
punishing myself for being worthless. I had to learn how to help myself and to
love myself. I realized that my life was worth living. I came to know the person I
knew all along I was unseen in me. I no longer have to hide my open wounds,
now they are my battle scars.
There was no one who could have helped me through that pain. I had learned
over a lifetime, my own way to deal with this misery - to cover it, to hide it. I had
grown accustomed to the violent black wave continuously driving me back
under. I felt like I was drowning, and often I welcomed the end. I recognized that
my feelings were wrong, but I coveted them. They were everything to me. They
were all I had.
That night was preceded by months of desolation and self loathing. Outbursts
of nonstop tears - tears for nothing, for my life that was nothing. "Why can't I just
live?" I would ask. I had constant thoughts of death - visions of myself and
everyone around me dying, especially my parents. I couldn't sleep- when I closed
my eyes all I could see was someone being raped and murdered or someone
flying through a car windshield, chunks of brain strewn across the highway. My
waking thoughts were like a perpetual nightmare.
At my worst, I sought help. Everywhere I went I was told, "All you have to do
is call and set up an appointment." No one understood how challenging it was for
me to get out of bed, or to keep up with the necessary tasks like hygiene and
health. It was nearly intolerable for me to leave my house or to pick up the
phone. I couldn't bring myself to change. The mere thought of starting over
petrified me. I was terrified of trying to be what everyone else professed to be
normal, happy or healthy. I was terrified of failing. In the end I was angry,
frustrated and mortified.
Two weeks after my last attempt to get help at North Central, the local loony
bin, I was still in the same spot. I had been mentally paralyzed for the better part
of twelve years. I found only one way of attaining a reprieve from the relentless
screaming inside my head and the incessant tears at the hatred for myself. I
wanted to punish myself for being broken.
I was in my tiny studio apartment feeling more isolated than I ever had in my
entire existence. It was late July and the air was thick and stale in this box I called
home. The stir of the city below, so unaware. I wanted to cry out my window to
the bustling mass of oblivious beings, " Doesn't anyone see me? Doesn't anyone
care? " I wanted to heave myself through the filthy bay window, crashing two
stories below, just so someone would help me.
Instead I cranked up my music and staggered like a zombie to the bathroom
cabinet. Inside was a beautiful stone jar, smooth and cold, where I kept my
weapon of choice. Of the countless things I had used to assault my body, this one
proved to be unsurpassed. I ran my fingers over the intricate swirling design
carved in the lid as I lifted it and removed a perfect gleaming razor blade. Cutting
stopped the pain. It was the only thing I could feel at times like these. It gave me
something to grab onto when I was spiraling out of control. It was the cement
wall that stopped the car spinning violently on the icy road.
I sat on my bed with my knees up and I shut my eyes tight. My legs were
uncharted territory, a clean slate, a last resort. My arms, as familiar as they were,
were full of past attempts to reconcile. Just do it, you pussy! I screamed inside
my head. Before I knew it I felt my right arm swinging down, my fingers clenched
the blade as it passed over my fleshy thigh.
Immediately I felt a release, but this time it was different. This time it was
followed instantaneously by a feeling of dread. I didn't want to look down. When
I did I saw a cave of tissue and blood. It had burst open, once taught like a
pregnant belly… now the flesh was gaping like that same stomach after the first
cut of a cesarean. Then the blood came gushing out and I howled, "What did I
do?! What did I do?!" I darted furiously back and forth from the bathroom to the
bedroom. One arm flailing about and the other trying to hold the gaping wound on
my leg closed. Crying, I picked up my phone and called a friend. "I'm sorry." I
sobbed over and over again. I told her to come over and bring some band aids.
After I hung up I laughed.
"Bandaids?"
When she pulled up outside I threw on some shorts and went downstairs,
blood still pouring down my leg. As she followed me up to the apartment she
stared at the crimson pools on the floor, careful to avoid them. She held up the
band aids with a tentative smile on her face when she walked in the door. I
carefully sat down on the chair by the window. Her face turned as white as a
ghost when she saw the amount of blood on my leg. She walked over and bent
down. Her jaw dropped and the words "oh baby…" were all that leaked
out.
She helped me to the bathroom and I positioned myself on the edge of the tub
as she tried her best to clean off my leg. It was obvious I needed stitches but by
that time the drug I called pain had set in and all I wanted to do was sleep. So we
worked collectively to pull both sides of the meat together and with five band aids
held it shut as best we could. I told her I was fine and to leave. She kissed my
cheek and with worried eyes, reluctantly left. I rolled a towel up and placed it
between my legs and fell soundly asleep.
When I woke up I felt faint and forgot until I looked down and recalled what
had happened the night before. There on the bed was a clot about the size of a
lime. I thought my insides had leaked out. Upon closer inspection I found it to be
nothing more than a giant lumpy mass of blood. It took over three months for my
leg to heal completely and the scar still serves as a daily reminder of the lows I
once reached.
My life took a different turn shortly after that incident and that path lead me to
where I am today. I learned through group therapy that I wasn't inferior. I
gained something I never had before- self esteem. I pulled myself out of those
swirling dark waters and for once saw the sun. For me, cutting was a lot of
things. It was a way to feel when I had been numbed by pain. It was a means to
bring to the surface the anguish I felt inside. Self mutilation was my mode of
punishing myself for being worthless. I had to learn how to help myself and to
love myself. I realized that my life was worth living. I came to know the person I
knew all along I was unseen in me. I no longer have to hide my open wounds,
now they are my battle scars.