I cut for the first time in a really really long time two days ago. It was weird. Because it wasn’t for the reasons it normally would be. I wasn’t miserable and depressed and full of self loathing. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t even really want to hurt or punish myself. It was just that I was so furious and out of control angry and needed to rip and destroy and break and hurt something and I couldn’t calm down. It was so stupid too. I hadn’t been having a bad day. It was just this one stupid thing that set me off. My ID broke. And I had a ton of shit to do and was already stressed with all the work I have to do and then on top of that my ID—which was brand fucking new—just randomly decided it wasn’t going to work for no reason whatsoever. So I couldn’t get into my room. I couldn’t get into the bathroom. Or my dorm. Or anywhere else. And I had to call campus safety to come let me into my dorm and then go all the way across campus to get a stupid loaner ID until the next day when ID services was open and I could get my ID replaced (again). Only I had class all fucking day that day and wouldn’t have a chance until probably the next day (today) and would have to use the stupid loaner ID that doesn’t let you access you student account money or meal plan/swipes or anything so you can’t use meal swipes or pay for printing or do laundry or buy coffee or food. And I was planning on doing laundry that night. I needed to do laundry. And I had a plan.
I waited 15 minutes for campus safety to come let me into my room. And my plan for studying and getting work done was already thrown off. I was going to lie down for 25 minutes because I was super tired then get dinner and then go to the library to work on my grant proposal and study for my exams. But now that plan was ruined. And I was so fucking angry.
I had just gotten my ID replaced three days ago. It was brand fucking new. It had been in my wallet. There was absolutely no reason for it not to be working. None whatsoever. But out of fucking nowhere it decided to crap out.
I was so completely aware of how stupid and irrational it was for me to be so upset. I was so annoyed and angry because it was so dumb and it wasn’t a big deal and why the fuck was I uncontrollably angry. It made no sense. I tried to calm the fuck down but the anger took over. It was just one of those episodes where I lose control and the anger is all-consuming and violent and cannot be ignored or deterred or quenched. It takes over completely and it needs to destroy. It needs to hurt something. To break. It needs to be released.
Only the rational part of my brain knows I can’t break anything. It won’t let me. This is my stuff. I need it. I can’t break it. Especially not for something so fucking stupid as this. And the rational part of my brain also forbids me from making a scene. I’m in a dorm. The walls are thin. People will hear me if I bang and throw things and shout and scream and fly off the handle and destroy. And I can’t trash my room or anything else. I can’t break or destroy or hurt. But I need to. I need to. The rage needs to be let out. But it has nowhere to go.
I tried. I tried just throwing my ID across the room and swearing violently at it and calling it ever awful word/name I knew. I tried punching my pillow and my bed. Repeatedly. I tried crushing my ID underneath my desk chair. But none of it worked and the more I tried to channel the rage into something that wouldn’t destroy the more it built. The angrier and bigger and more vengeful it got.
And finally I knew what I had to do. I had to hurt something. But I couldn’t hurt anyone or anything else. So I would hurt myself. I would release the anger and rage and need to destroy and rip and break on a place where it wouldn’t hurt anyone. A safe place.
I’ve done it before. Lots of times. I turned the rage and hatered inwards and took it out on my body. And it worked. It always worked. Better than anything else ever did. It always satisfied the rage. Like nothing else ever could.
So I got out my safety pin. The one I kept in my meds basket. It wasn’t a great tool but it would do.
And as soon as it touched my skin it was like the anger and fury evaporated. Like someone shot it with a tranquilliser.
The cuts weren’t deep. At all. They barely even hurt. Actually, they didn’t hurt. At all. They were relief. Cool, sweet, blessed relief. They barely even bled. Just scratches. But they were working.
I went to get a bandAid and I realized I had brought my Safety Kit with me to school. I’d brought it because I knew there was no way I could leave it around for my mother to find and snoop through (which she most certainly would). I didn’t bring it because I was terrified to be without it or because I wanted it. needed it. Like I always used to. No. I brought it because I couldn’t risk her finding it. But when I realized I’d brought it. All of the anger and rage was put to rest. Calm relief. Peace.
I was so thankful. So grateful. So relieved that I had thought to bring it. I knew I’d be okay. I had my safety kit. Everything would be fine. I can’t even describe the feeling of relief and calm that knowing I had my safety kit with me.
So I took it out. Went through it to see what I had. What my options were. I cleaned all of tools with the little alcohol sterile cloths I had in there. I’d say blades but honestly they’re not blades. I have blades. But they’re for the heavy duty serious stuff. The times when I want to hurt. To cut deep. They’re not for the emotional moments where I’m not thinking fully but just acting on blind desperate impulse and need. They’re for when I am fully aware and fully in control and know exactly what I’m doing and what I want to do and what the consequences will be. The other stuff. They’re not blades. I have safety pins, thumb tacks, sewing pins and needles, cuticle scissors, and a few other sharp objects. They’re for scratching really. Just surface stuff. The relief. They won’t do any real damage. They won’t leave any lasting marks. They’re safe. They stop me from doing anything stupid or impulsive or dangerous or permanent that I can’t take back. Like those times with the new x-acto knife blade or the razor blade. Those were not meant to be that deep. I had no idea they’d be that deep. I didn’t know they’d cut like that. I had just wanted relief. But I’d cut so deep. Through layers of fat. I could see into myself. Into the muscle. Those were terrifying. Well one of them was. The other one I was manic at the time so I thought it was hilarious. But still. I hadn’t intended for either of them to be so deep. It was an accident.
But the pins and needles and other sharp stuff. Those I knew exactly what they could do. I knew even if I lost control I couldn’t do any real damage. They were safe.
So I cut. They’re not really even cuts. Honestly just scratches. But for once I wasn’t angry or ashamed or upset that they weren’t deeper. I wasn’t filled with hatred for myself for being to cowardly to weak to cut deeper and make ‘real’ cuts not just pathetic scratches. That’s how it always used to be. I wanted to cut. I wanted to leave scars and do real lasting damage (I just wanted to be in control of said damage). This time I didn’t cut because I wanted to leave scars and hurt myself. I didn’t cut because I was craving it. Longing for blood and pain and scars. I cut because I knew it would release the anger. I knew it would cure the fit of fury and rage and hatred and need to maim and destroy. I cut because I knew it would calm everything. There was no other way to sate the allconsuming rage. It was the only way to relieve it. The only cure. And I knew it would be effective and work immediately.
And it did. It was so calming. So wonderfully amazingly relaxing and relieving.
But it was weird because I hadn’t done it—wasn’t doing it—because I was craving it. I hadn’t even wanted or intended to. It was just the only solution. That’s weird for me because I always always used to love cutting. I would love making myself bleed. I loved making myself hurt. I loved punishing myself. Relishing in the blood and the pain and the scars and the proof on my skin. But this time it wasn’t that.
I wasn’t overtaken by the desperate impulse to cut and cut and cut and keep cutting. No. I was calm. Controlled. Collected. I played around with the different things I had to see what worked. None of them really did anything at all. But that was fine. I wasn’t trying or longing to cut deep or bleed a lot. Just a little was enough. I cut some on my right hip. I did a few on my right leg and then a handful in my left arm. It’s fall and going on winter. I won’t be wearing summer clothes or anything for a long time. I’m away at school. There’s no one to see. I’m not even playing squash so there’s no reason for me to have to wear shortsleeves or be exposed. I don’t have roommates who might see anything. So I didn’t need to b overly cautious and hide. Also even if someone did see anything, it’s not the same. Before I couldn’t let anyone see because they’d try to make me stop. And I did not want to stop. Ever. Now. It’s not like I’m reliant on it now. I’m not doing it regularly—hell I don’t even remember the last time I did it, it was that long ago. Months. It’s not like I’m dependent on it.
But yeah. I cut. It was weird. But also not. Familiar. Relieving. Reviving.
I wasn’t at all worried or concerned or disappointed or upset at myself for cutting. It’s not like I was making a conscious effort to be clean. I really wasn’t. I just haven’t needed to or wanted to (that strongly that I couldn’t ignore it) for a while. So that’s why I hadn’t cut. This time was a one time thing. It’s not a “relapse” or me “slipping up” or anything because I wasn’t trying to be clean. I’m not concerned it will turn into more. Or I’ll fall back into it. Because I’m different now. So much is different. I’m not at all the same as I was. I’m not actively suicidal. I’m not even passively suicidal the vast majority of the time. I actually want to live. Which is something that the old me could have never ever imagined even in my wildest dreams. The old me would have rather died than get better or be happy. It’s not like that now. I’m not like that now. Which is brand new for me (though it’s been a while now). But I don’t want to go back to how I was. I don’t want to go back to misery and darkness and pain and killing myself bit by bit, day by day. I don’t want to go back to that life. So I’m not worried that I cut. I’m not bothered or concerned by the cuts at all. I’m not overly attached to them or proud of them (I hope) but I’m not upset by them. They are what they are. Not a big deal. Nothing to worry about. They’re really not a big deal. I’m not concerned.
I’m saying all of this because I’ve been thinking about it a lot and trying to find a way to iterate why it’s not a big deal, why I’m not worried or upset. Why there’s nothing to worry about. I’m not just saying this to try to convince myself. I’m really not. I genuinely believe it’s not going to make me spiral or want to spiral back into suffering and darkness. Maybe I’m a little concerned that it might trigger me to do it more often, but even if it does, im still not worried because I know I do not want to go back to how I used to be. I do not want to go back to hurting that much, and to wanting to die rather than get better and live. I’m in an entirely new place—I’m an entirely different person now—and nothing will make me willingly go back to that. It might happen someday, where it just happens but it won’t be because I intentionally brought it on. It won’t be because I sabatoged and triggered myself. It won’t be because I wanted it. And if it does come back, I’ll get through it. I now have seen that I can want to live. So even if the darkness and misery comes back, I know I can be happy, I can want to live. So I’ll get through it. I’ll want to get through it. Simple as that.
