alternative title for this page:
there are many terms for it. self-abuse. self-harm. self-mutilation. self-injury. "self-injury" is the one i usually use, it's the most polite one, "self-mutilation" is what i think would describe me best but it sounds too crazy . . . . .
i don't know how it started. one day in the spring of 1998 i scratched myself with a ruler in a VERY lame suicide attempt. i scratched myself during a few more incidents on my arm - the opposite side of the veins - because it was the only way i could try to kill myself. i also scratched myself with a knife that summer on my arm, opposite from the veins. they were the only ways i could try and die. but, since i barely drew blood, you have to question my motives.
September 1998: it was Labour Day. i was at Linny's house with Anita. we were watching the "Ghostbusters" movies because i had never seen them before. and we had Pizza Delight for supper. they make the best pizza. but i had been feeling down all day, especially since Linny was going to spend the night at Anita's to keep her company while her parents were away. after i went home i was so depressed i couldn't stand it. i walked over to my underwear drawer and took out a razor, the kind you use for shaving your legs. the night before we had all gathered at Linny's house to watch "Empire Records". that was the first time i had ever seen that movie and what the bald chick did to herself gave me the idea. so i tried to slit my left wrist. i deliberately did it across-ways instead of down-ways. i started to bleed - a lot, i thought. it wasn't a very serious wound, but it was the first time i had ever done anything like that. i started to panic. i called Anita and started to cry. she told me to calm down, to go tell my parents, that it would be okay.
so i told my parents, we called the floor at the hospital where i had been admitted to, and i calmed down. the cuts were exciting to look at after they had stopped bleeding. i fingered my wrist lovingly and kissed my cuts goodnight.
so maybe Anita wasn't the best person to call. an acquaintance of mine - who was a really good friend of Anita's and the cousin of her boyfriend Dan - had killed himself the year before. i hadn't been in their group at the time so i wasn't close to any of them then but we had gone to jr. high together and i was in grades 8 and 9 with Anita and Mark (the guy who killed himself). Anita started to freak out after i called, Linny told me.
i didn't cut often, only sometimes, once a week, once a month, once i went for four months. i would cut on my wrist, by my hand, and my jacket would cover the marks. the last time i cut myself on the wrist it bled for about two hours and we had to go to the hospital. i didn't need stitches though. now that it's warm i cut on my upper arms, where it can be easily hidden by my tshirt sleeves. i cut more often than i did when i first started.
the burning wasn't my idea. it was inspired by Michael. ironic, isn't it. he doesn't want me to do cut but he gave me the idea of burning. it wasn't his fault, though. i don't think he even thought i'd consider it. it was during Economics and he was talking about these kids he babysat when he was our age, and how the father would hit them and stub out cigarettes on their arms. (this situation has been changed. the only reason i'm saying that if i DON'T mention that the situation has changed i'll feel like i'm lying and i don't like to lie.) that night i tried it. jesus, i don't even smoke . . . . .
i haven't burnt in awhile. i don't have any more cigarettes. no, that's a lie. i DO have a cigarette. one. i want to burn, but i'm waiting to get a whole pack so i can crucify my arm with an army of flames.
when i cut i use razor blades. i remove them from their plastic stems and cut. i also like to reopen cuts, scars and healing wounds with safety pins. i don't like knives - they hurt too much and don't produce enough blood. i'd like to get an x-acto knife but i'm afraid . . . . . plus i'm broke.
there are all sorts of little reasons why i cut but i'm still not sure why i do it. i do it because i like the pain, because i crave the pain, because i deserve it, to punish myself, because it's love, the only love that i know, because love is pain and they never leave me standing along in a world that's so cold, as a release because with every drop of blood that flows out of my veins a piece of me dies, to torture myself, to watch the blood and pick it off when it dries.
i hit myself, too. slap myself hard on the face and the arms. i do this when i'm home alone, in the shower or when i'm playing loud punk music so no one will hear. i've had thoughts of burning my hands with a lighter, cutting off my fingers and toes, and driving nails through my palms. i look up torture sites on the internet for more ideas on how to hurt myself.
i've been masochistic since i was seven. i don't know if i am a masochist - i've taken dozen of tests to see if i'm pshcyotic, bulimic, anorexic, depressed, obsessed, obsessive-compulsive, etc, but i've never found a test to determine whether or not you're a masochist - but i know imust have masochistic tendancies. i don't know what people think about before they go to sleep, but ever since i was seven, before i would go to sleep, i would think about being locked up in dungeons, being starved, being tortured, being raped. i don't know why. i don't think those are normal daydreams for a seven year old.
i wrote a poem in September 1998 shortly after i began to self-injure. it was a lousy poem but i like this verse, which is also lousy but i still like it.
but i think that i'm a masochist
and i'm waiting to be hurt
i want you to put the damage on
and throw me in the dirt
it sounds incomplete because the rest of the poem is not there, but it describes how i feel about love and self-injury. i'm not putting it up yet, but if you want to read the rest, email me.