As the sharp silver frailness
Glides through the creamy paleness
The relief of anguish is bliss,
As the crimson liquid a passionate kiss.
That is part of a poem I had written when I was about 14 or 15 years old. I was romanticizing what is called self-mutilation. Though there’s nothing romantic about it. My first deep cut, right on my left wrist, was directly the result of something my father had said to me.
I had stayed up all night thanks to my friend at the time, Insomnia, and I remember eating some lunch meat. Well, my dad was pissed because I had left it out and our dog at the time had gotten ahold of it and shit all over the house. Lovely, I know. So my dad says to me as we are passing in the hall, “The white trash slut is finally out of bed.” and that incensed me so that I rushed to the bathroom where I had hidden the knife and sliced my wist open over the toilet seat so I wouldn’t get blood everywhere.
Cutting is a learned behavior. I learned about it from an article in Seventeen magazine. I’m sure though, that wasn’t the article’s intentions. Since it is a learned behavior, it can be unlearned which I have proven. I couldn’t imagine cutting today. The stinging pain I once enjoyed would be lackluster and, in fact, opposite of how it used to be. Plainly speaking, cutting myself would be painful.
In my teens I was hospitalized 3 times — twice for cutting and once for a Prozac overdose. Why the Prozac OD? Simple. I didn’t want to take medication anymore and I couldn’t throw them away because my mom would see them. So I swallowed them and fell asleep for 4 hours until I woke up weak and shaky.
I was diagnosed with Depression NOS (Not Otherwise Specified… i.e. no reason) for the majority of my teen years. I then entered my late teens, I’d say about 18, I was not having those feelings anymore. Until I hit 23 and had my first psychotic break.
Lastly, I want to say if you’re mutilating yourself in any way, please talk to someone. You can get help. You can stop. There are healthier ways in coping.