Confessions of a chronic cutter

Talking about cutting today in therapy, and guiltily comparing someone else's surface scratching to what I view as like, "successful,"  more extreme cutting for me, made me think of the ways that I kind of romanticize self-harm. Only for myself though. I don't wish others to harm themselves.

At times I view self-destruction and damage as an almost beautiful thing. I describe gaping gashes and streaming blood in romantic words in my head, with infatuation, calling up the magical feeling of release and relief. I think of it as something special and perfect. Intimate. I daydream about different ways to cause more severe physical harm, like the times I decided to burn my arm with a metal knife heated against the stove, and pressed it, scorching my skin. That was an achievement in my world. Something I feel like I should do again, that I've been slacking. I need to push further to feel the euphoria and fulfillment.

Danger is in my body. It feels so inticing. It calls to me with its siren song. It thrills, and fills the emptiness deep in my being. It gives me a cause, a reason, a goal. I will be Good at it, maybe even the best. I will survive the unsurvivable for most people, brush away pain and devour pill piles, make my skin a canvas no one can bear to look at. It gives me a sort of energy, a meaning to be here for. A purpose. In some sick ways it is "fun." The challenge of seeing how far I can take it, what extremes I can endure.

When I'm outside of the emergency room I fantasize about the people rushing around me, focused on my pain, hurting me with the burning lidocaine needles as they help me. Pain and care for me have always been lovers. The pleasuring aesthetic of a neat line of dark stitches sewed to hold my flesh together. How sometimes they tell me it's fruitless in a way because I already have so much cosmetic damage anyway. Just to prevent infection only. Was I in a fire? Some nurses ask when they see my arms. I see their horrified faces when I peel back the bandage to show the laceration, baring my mental and emotional damage through my body. Slapping them in the face and then apologizing with my injury to myself. I am really the one that is hurt.

But when I actually go to the Emergency room, the woman at the front desk says hello to me by name, and What is it today? Some of the nurses greet me, glad to see me but I'm embarrassed at being so familiar to them, such a door revolver. Wasting time and resources with my disturbed ways of dealing with even minor issues; sometimes just a dazed action when bored and grasping for a feeling, anything solid. Thoughtless, and yet the disfigurement it causes. I shouldn't involve others.

There is the exhaustion of explaining, and explaining away history. Gathering a calm voice, a lie, and a smile to assure against suicidality and being sectioned again. Making sure to mention a plan and all the professionals I have who know what's going on. Throw in a supportive boyfriend and they love it.

There is the indescribable boredom of waiting. Always waiting as hours pass and no one speaks to you. Thirsty. You're too afraid to bother them for some water. The groans of other patients, the inevitable restraints overheard, the threats and yelling.

You start to regret the whole thing, the predictability and monotony of it all. You're so tired. This is what always happens. Suddenly the stitches don't feel so comforting. Their visual metaphor for healing begins to panic you. You just want to go home and take them out, undo the care. Prevent the closing of the cut that was yelling out for you to begin with. Why did I even come here? You ask yourself. The damage wasn't severe enough anyway. You tell yourself you'll come back when it's REALLY bad. They shouldn't have just let you go back home to do it again. But you are desperate not to stay at the same time.

You sit at home nursing the ache of stitches that hurt more than the actual wound did. Your boyfriend looks disappointed but you don't talk about it. This has been happening for forever. For a moment you are relieved of the need to cut again. You are nearly satisfied with the gash you have, the sting of it, reminding you that pain is always there as your friend. You'll need to find it again of course, but for a brief time you have done well. You are a wild wolf fed, a dark creature sleeping for now. You are filled.