Once a cutter, always a cutter.
I used to imagine that there would be a day I would be sat in a sterile white room, with a sterile white gown, and a sterile (at some point) white bed. And of course an old sterile doctor with a pad of paper and a bottle of “happy pills.” They would take all of my things, disrupt my regular life and set on the task to make me better. Because eventually someone would have to notice. And eventually someone would have to care.
But I was careful, oh man was I careful. Not here, but yes there. My favourite dress reaches to here and my favourite shorts to there. And I was fascinated by the fact that no one could see, no one knew. Behind closed doors, after a chipper conversation about the weather, I could do monstrous things to myself. I didn’t do it for attention. I quit with the fantasy that, yes, someone will notice. Because no one did. Not then. Not for years.
I became my own twisted baby doll. The only way I can describe it. You see, I’ve always been the type of person that needed something to care for. A pet, a plant, a child to watch. Something to fill that void. When I ran out of ideas or the days felt too long and too numb, there was my skin. And in my underwear drawer, tucked under a pair of forgotten, thick white cotton panties covered in black hearts, there was my blade.
I craved the soothing. Cutting was never part of the fun. The build up, the gasp, the shock, the pain, the sting of tears. But there it would be. A line of bright red that screamed, “help me.” A warm damp cloth, anti bacterial spray, a topical cream, a bandage. And a dull throbbing under jeans, under my thong for the next couple of days that was mine. Just my own. My little something to care for.
When I ran out of places that no one could see and became embarrassed about the ones that only lovers could see, I decided I needed to stop. I turned to the bottle. Craved, again, nursing myself through a hangover. Vomit, drink the water, take the pills, allow myself some sleep, get fresh air. And then I actually got sick. Chronically. With something I couldn’t control and I realized that putting myself there, was it’s own twisted kind of sick.
Which left me where I am now. With the dreads. I want to cut? I want to drink until I vomit? I twist my hair until it forms a knot at the base. And over the next few days, I work on it. Twist, rip, palm roll, bead, pull aside in the shower. And when the urge stops, and those who know, know the urge doesn’t always stop by morning. It doesn’t always stop by the end of the week, or into the next month. But when it does, when I can cut an apple without thinking about my skin or limit myself to one drink at dinner, I brush that dread out. And when the feeling comes back, further and farther between, I begin again.