Nostalgia

Scars

The first cut was scary, not easy at all. In fact, I didn't even break the skin. Turns out regular old scissors wouldn't be enough. But for the time being, it was all I had. So I dragged the blade down my arm and watched with sick satisfaction at the puffy pink line slowly forming. It was such a satisfying experience, and I right away felt that I wanted to do it again.

I don't remember when or where I found the razor, but I know I brought it home, sat in my closet and held it between my fingers, pressed against my wrist, trying to conjure up the actual courage to break my own skin, to let my blood out. I know others that can do it. If they can, then...

It was like fireworks. There was pain, of course, lots of it. But somehow the pain was extremely enjoyable. I gasped out loud, and I realized watching the blood form little droplets from where I cut was much more satisfying than the dull blade cut of the scissors.

After that, there was no going back. There was no other way to ease the pain inside, or quell the anger when it rose up, or make myself feel something when I felt completely dead. Nothing but the razor.

Before I knew it, I was absolutely covered in scars. Both my arms, there wasn't even space left for a single blade swipe. Once I moved onto my thighs, I almost felt something akin to fear. Like, maybe I should stop. Maybe I'm taking this too far. But an hour I spent not thinking about cutting myself was rare. It was all I thought about. I longed to see my skin split open, the lavish scarlet leaking out. I craved the sting, the tugging of the scars on the fabric of my clothes. I would rub up against objects just to feel the stabs of pain.

I thought I was hiding it well. Nothing but long sleeved shirts and sweatshirts. No shorts, nothing too revealing just in case I slip and a scar shows.

One day in class I was looking for an eraser in my backpack, and a small razor that I had unscrewed from a pencil sharpener fell out. I quickly scooped it up, but not before the kid sitting beside me saw. He asked why I needed it, and I didn't know how to answer so I just shrugged and prayed he'd drop it. He did.

Years went by and people begged me to stop, once they caught wind. So many of my friends yanked my sleeves up, and for what? Just to be disappointed in me, just to be saddened and angry. "Why don't you just come to me?" You'd never understand. It's not anything anyone did. It's something inside of me that I need to do. I have to do it.

The thought of not having a razor sends my heart into a panicky rhythm. I make sure I have one on my person at all times, and I have at least two more stashed around my room.Some sharper than others. And when I'm in the worst place, I crave the sharpest cut.

It's like the first breath of fresh air when you come up from underwater. It's like wrapping yourself in soft, warm blankets on a cold day. It's relief, and comfort. And also a need unlike any other I've felt. I get home from school and the first thing I do is cut myself. Sometimes I even do it at school. My ex girlfriend caught me once in a stall, blood dripping from my wrists.

I will never forget the look of horror in her eyes. Horror. Disappointment. Anger. The usual reactions.

But when it's someone you love that sees you this way, it's different. It makes me want to die knowing I put her, and others, through that situation. She washed my wrists in the sink, and shooed away other girls that tried to enter. They peered at me quickly and shuffled out.

These scars were my best friend. They were always there, and so was my razor. And that was my safety net. But most didn't see it that way, and I confided in all the wrong people.

The school nurse had to bandage me up more than once. I couldn't look her in the eye or say a word. She was kind, and gentle, but I was embarrassed. And after that ordeal happened the second time, the guidance counselor suggested inpatient hospitalization. I was dead set against it. No way would I be locked up like some crazy person.

Until she stopped loving me. I could feel it in her actions, in her words and see it in her eyes. But she kept up the facade because I was so broken and fragile, and she didn't want to pull the pin out of my grenade. But I still knew.

I sent myself to the hospital. I waited in the emergency room for eleven hours, with a tired looking attendant sitting nearby, making sure I don't strangle myself with my IV or something. Following me to the bathroom, as if I could drown myself in the toilet or waterboard myself in the sink.

And through it all, all I had to make me feel safe were my scars. Scars that I can't see anymore after I covered them up, with a beautiful tattoo. Because life does go on. Scars are forever, but life goes on. Without you.