The first time I cut was when I was thirteen, trying to survive my last year of middle school. My close friend C, the only person who understood the type of suffocating pain I was going through, was a cutter. He told me that it wasn't really a release because even though it helped him short-term it would only cause more problems later. He told me I shouldn't do it; he didn't want me to be like him, so broken beyond repair. I didn't listen because I just wanted the pain to go away, So one day, I went into my kitchen and grabbed a knife. I dragged the blade across my wrist back and forth, back and forth, but barely scratched the surface. I had a very low tolerance of pain and eventually gave up. It wasn't for me; I would need to find another way to cope.
But then a year later, after moving towns and making new friends, I tried it again.
I was at my friend E's house helping her with Geometry. When we finished her math work, she called our friend M over to hang out. We all went up to E's bedroom and hung out like normal teenage girls, singing and playing with make-up.
Then M opened a make-up case with a broken mirror, removed a shard, and created a slim ribbon of red across her skin. She called attention to it and I was curious. She found me a piece, handed it over, then I cut myself. The sharp glass worked so much better than the serrated knife I'd used a year ago.
I was a goner from the start.
Two and a half years later, I'm still broken beyond repair. The last time I cut was a few weeks ago, though that isn't really a good thing since the cutting came with a stomach full of pills. The pain and blood do nothing for me anymore, they only fascinate me.
My scars have gotten me yelled at by friends, boyfriends, family. I was almost sent to the mental hospital. Hell, I almost asked to go to a mental hospital at some points. They've made people cry and scream and beg. But the most common reaction is in the form of a single word.
"Why?"
And at this point I only have one answer.
"I don't know."
Because I really don't know why I kept doing it and keep wanting it. It doesn't make things better, it only makes thins worse. C was right in the beginning when he said it would only cause me grief later on.
I don't hide my scars anymore. Everyone who knows me knows about them already. I wear them like a scarlet letter, like a symbol of shame. But I also wear them like battle scars, to show all I've gone through. And I've gone through a lot.
They're all over my body; words and lines and shapes carved into skin as a reminder to and relief of built-up misery. My arms, legs, hips, torso, chest. Everywhere you look, a new scar is to be seen.
They are my mark of shame, the scarlet letters I will wear for years and years until they finally decide that maybe I deserve a second chance.
