The First Cut
When my life changed forever, When I became the "Me" I am now, When I left everything I had behind and stepped out into the unknown, When I faced the truth about myself.. I cut.
Why do I cut?
Lots of reasons. I started because I couldn’t handle the way things were, and because it was new. I am not suicidal. I do not think "my life sucks" or "I can't go on". My cuts aren't wrist to elbow, they're side to side. It was something I’d thought of for awhile (“Everyone’s Doing It!”) So one night I did.
I went upstairs. Cracked open a razor, And cut. You think it would’ve stung. Or hurt. Some sort of physical reaction. But I felt none. I thought I didn’t do it hard enough, that I was going to easy on myself. So I let it go again. And again. And again. The next day my left arm looked like beef jerky. Cut up and chewn, like some ravage beast had assaulted it. I’m not quite sure that “proud” is the right way to describe it. I didn’t feel proud. I was ashamed in a way, this would be frowned upon at school. I told 2 people what I did that night. Emma and Sally. I knew they wouldn’t judge me. I did a few things that night. I took some Tylenol 3’s (6,7,8, or maybe even 9 I didn’t count) and I downed them with my stepmom’s vodka. That feeling of numbness was a high like no joint could offer. That night was bad. I wish I could’ve warned myself, it was about to get worse. That night I was cut, medicated, and quite a bit buzzed. Meaningless physical weakness that I could handle. The next day (the half day) I was about to get quite a shock when my whole world, my friends, my routines, my way of life, came shattering apart.
Why do I cut?
Lots of reasons. I started because I couldn’t handle the way things were, and because it was new. I am not suicidal. I do not think "my life sucks" or "I can't go on". My cuts aren't wrist to elbow, they're side to side. It was something I’d thought of for awhile (“Everyone’s Doing It!”) So one night I did.
I went upstairs. Cracked open a razor, And cut. You think it would’ve stung. Or hurt. Some sort of physical reaction. But I felt none. I thought I didn’t do it hard enough, that I was going to easy on myself. So I let it go again. And again. And again. The next day my left arm looked like beef jerky. Cut up and chewn, like some ravage beast had assaulted it. I’m not quite sure that “proud” is the right way to describe it. I didn’t feel proud. I was ashamed in a way, this would be frowned upon at school. I told 2 people what I did that night. Emma and Sally. I knew they wouldn’t judge me. I did a few things that night. I took some Tylenol 3’s (6,7,8, or maybe even 9 I didn’t count) and I downed them with my stepmom’s vodka. That feeling of numbness was a high like no joint could offer. That night was bad. I wish I could’ve warned myself, it was about to get worse. That night I was cut, medicated, and quite a bit buzzed. Meaningless physical weakness that I could handle. The next day (the half day) I was about to get quite a shock when my whole world, my friends, my routines, my way of life, came shattering apart.