Old Friends Come Back
Jeeeeeeeeesus Fuuuuuuucking CHRIST.
I was looking in a drawer for something this evening, and I didn't find it. What I found instead were a couple of knives that I used to use to cut myself. They are very fine pocket knives that I once bought specifically for self-injury, before I discovered the joys of the tissue blade.
I chose them for their size and construction -- small but solid, easy for me to hold and control with my little hands. The watchword in self-injury for me was always control. I would never just grab a blade and slice away. I would always choose the location and the tool carefully, decided what sort of cuts I wanted to make, how long, how deep, how wide, and how many I would be allowed for that session, and then see how close with trembling fingers and galloping heart I could get to that ideal. I liked the smaller pocket knife best with its tiny wicked sharp tip for cutting my forearms, making small, straight lines and writing words on that more durable skin. The bigger one was better for the long graceful slashes on my chest and thighs that always stung a little too much and never bled quite enough when they were fresh. I've got a nasty scar that runs diagonally from the outside of my left collarbone down to just above my breast that came from repeatedly reopening a wound I made with that knife. And oh did it bleed then, the trail of red oozing out and slowly encircling the inner curve like a lover's finger, such a tremendous, shattering pleasure and such sickened horror that I have never again allowed myself to cut my chest.
I didn't forget about these knives, and I didn't precisely lose them. I put them away one day in a haze of grief and self-disgust, and forgot where I'd put them. I've thought of them and even looked for them from time to time. Just because I wanted to know where they were. Just so that exactly what happened tonight wouldn't happen, so that here, exactly when I want them most and need them least, they have turned up again. My other blades I am prepared against, but these took me by surprise. They want me, and I want them.
Craft knives. Flat knives. Pocket knives. Tissue blades. I know where they all are, and I can hear them all singing. I can't throw them all away, because I need them for their proper uses, and besides, I would just go get more, and if I got more, I would use them. There are far too many blades in the world for me to succeed if I make their presence in my house a taboo. I need to have the temptation here so that I can resist it. I am stronger than mere sharpened bits of metal.
Is being here and writing about this giving in? Am I here to trigger myself, or am I here because I've been triggered? I've been doing this for so long, I know so damned much about it. I know all kinds of ways to inflict pain upon myself. I know how to maximise pain and minimise visible damage. I know how to take care of myself so that I don't get caught, and don't get infections. I am always up-to-date on my tetanus shots. But I scar, and I am addicted, and as with any addiction, my tolerance has increased, and there's nothing I can do about that except struggle to continue to resist.
Many of the people I know would consider me a hypocrite for joining and contributing to this community. I thought about inventing an alias just to participate here. But this has been far too much part of me for far too long to hide behind a false name, and maybe it's time I faced that. It's not something I'm experimenting with, or playing at, or want attention for. It is part of me and has been for thirty-some years. I know it's wrong and I know I don't want to do it any more, but I love cutting myself and making myself bleed, I fucking love it, just as much as I hate it. I always have and I probably always will. I've tried various kinds of non-marking pain infliction, and they are only a tease for what I really want, and only make me want it more.
Again the cry: "I won't. I mustn't. No more self-destruction. No more scars. I'm getting too old for this shit." Six months, one week, and two days. The struggle continues. But the other day, a drinking glass fell out of the cabinet and smashed on the counter, and a shard of glass hit me and cut my palm, and oh, the thrill, the blood...Yes, I am well and truly damned.
But I won't give in. I love it, but I will not embrace it. I refuse.
Maybe I am a hypocrite. Everything I write against cutting is true, is written from my heart and meant from there. But still I use romantic terms like "bladesong" to describe the way the urge to cut calls to me. I feel joy and relief at the idea of sharing my experiences with people who will not condemn me. The longing for the cutting itself fires in me a sense of desire that is strong and sweet and delicious, and is almost as cleansingly painful as the cutting itself. Almost. Almost. It's that damned "almost" that's going to get me.
Maybe I am a hypocrite. I can't stand the idea of encouraging others to cut. But I can't keep this shit inside anymore, not if I'm going to continue fighting it.
If any of my friends read this...Please don't hate me. I am genuinely sorry.
I was looking in a drawer for something this evening, and I didn't find it. What I found instead were a couple of knives that I used to use to cut myself. They are very fine pocket knives that I once bought specifically for self-injury, before I discovered the joys of the tissue blade.
I chose them for their size and construction -- small but solid, easy for me to hold and control with my little hands. The watchword in self-injury for me was always control. I would never just grab a blade and slice away. I would always choose the location and the tool carefully, decided what sort of cuts I wanted to make, how long, how deep, how wide, and how many I would be allowed for that session, and then see how close with trembling fingers and galloping heart I could get to that ideal. I liked the smaller pocket knife best with its tiny wicked sharp tip for cutting my forearms, making small, straight lines and writing words on that more durable skin. The bigger one was better for the long graceful slashes on my chest and thighs that always stung a little too much and never bled quite enough when they were fresh. I've got a nasty scar that runs diagonally from the outside of my left collarbone down to just above my breast that came from repeatedly reopening a wound I made with that knife. And oh did it bleed then, the trail of red oozing out and slowly encircling the inner curve like a lover's finger, such a tremendous, shattering pleasure and such sickened horror that I have never again allowed myself to cut my chest.
I didn't forget about these knives, and I didn't precisely lose them. I put them away one day in a haze of grief and self-disgust, and forgot where I'd put them. I've thought of them and even looked for them from time to time. Just because I wanted to know where they were. Just so that exactly what happened tonight wouldn't happen, so that here, exactly when I want them most and need them least, they have turned up again. My other blades I am prepared against, but these took me by surprise. They want me, and I want them.
Craft knives. Flat knives. Pocket knives. Tissue blades. I know where they all are, and I can hear them all singing. I can't throw them all away, because I need them for their proper uses, and besides, I would just go get more, and if I got more, I would use them. There are far too many blades in the world for me to succeed if I make their presence in my house a taboo. I need to have the temptation here so that I can resist it. I am stronger than mere sharpened bits of metal.
Is being here and writing about this giving in? Am I here to trigger myself, or am I here because I've been triggered? I've been doing this for so long, I know so damned much about it. I know all kinds of ways to inflict pain upon myself. I know how to maximise pain and minimise visible damage. I know how to take care of myself so that I don't get caught, and don't get infections. I am always up-to-date on my tetanus shots. But I scar, and I am addicted, and as with any addiction, my tolerance has increased, and there's nothing I can do about that except struggle to continue to resist.
Many of the people I know would consider me a hypocrite for joining and contributing to this community. I thought about inventing an alias just to participate here. But this has been far too much part of me for far too long to hide behind a false name, and maybe it's time I faced that. It's not something I'm experimenting with, or playing at, or want attention for. It is part of me and has been for thirty-some years. I know it's wrong and I know I don't want to do it any more, but I love cutting myself and making myself bleed, I fucking love it, just as much as I hate it. I always have and I probably always will. I've tried various kinds of non-marking pain infliction, and they are only a tease for what I really want, and only make me want it more.
Again the cry: "I won't. I mustn't. No more self-destruction. No more scars. I'm getting too old for this shit." Six months, one week, and two days. The struggle continues. But the other day, a drinking glass fell out of the cabinet and smashed on the counter, and a shard of glass hit me and cut my palm, and oh, the thrill, the blood...Yes, I am well and truly damned.
But I won't give in. I love it, but I will not embrace it. I refuse.
Maybe I am a hypocrite. Everything I write against cutting is true, is written from my heart and meant from there. But still I use romantic terms like "bladesong" to describe the way the urge to cut calls to me. I feel joy and relief at the idea of sharing my experiences with people who will not condemn me. The longing for the cutting itself fires in me a sense of desire that is strong and sweet and delicious, and is almost as cleansingly painful as the cutting itself. Almost. Almost. It's that damned "almost" that's going to get me.
Maybe I am a hypocrite. I can't stand the idea of encouraging others to cut. But I can't keep this shit inside anymore, not if I'm going to continue fighting it.
If any of my friends read this...Please don't hate me. I am genuinely sorry.