NOTE: I haven't cut since February 2000. Yay, me!!


When my world spins wildly out of control and a white-hot shaft of pure pain slices deep into my heart, my mind brings forth images of self-injury.

As I force down my fear and tentatively reach out to another for a touch of comfort, my heart is in my throat. If that hesitant request is misunderstood, goes unnoticed, or is rejected, that fear and pain break free, double in strength, and form a swirling vortex of despair. A tidal wave of self-loathing breaks over my head. Why did I think that my needs were so important? Why didn't I notice that the other person was busy dealing with her own stuff? Why can't I just deal with my stuff and leave everyone else alone? Why must I constantly burden everyone else with my stupid whining? In my head is a picture of my slender white left wrist. My imagined right hand holds a small shining razor blade, pressing its hard sharp edge against the tender flesh, which causes the thin skin to mound slightly, forming a small white hill against the straight unforgiving blade. I slice boldly, as I never do in real life, watching the crimson blood well up and flow over my hands and forearms. The sequence is repeated again and again in my head, rhythmically hypnotic in its seductive power.

I am drawn deeper and deeper into my well of pain and hopelessness as the 'real' world recedes. I am enveloped in the darkness of my inner battle. At the moment that the hoped-for comfort was shown to be unavailable, my mind and soul negated the possibility of help from outside, turning on itself in a ripping, slashing feeding frenzy. Now my eyes are closed hard against the world. Am I keeping the world out or am I trying to keep the horrors in? My chest constricts, feeling as though a hot, heavy weight were pressing against it. I sit silently, unmoving, as I inwardly wrestle with the force that would offer me up on an altar as a sacrifice for the ills of the world. Surely they can't all be my fault? No, of course not, but the many that are my fault will do well enough as reason for requiring the sacrifice. The rivers of blood fill my mind, intoxicating in their promise of release from pain, release from the spinning, tossing, falling chaos that I am surrounded by.

I have to get out. I can't stand to be around people for another moment. They don't know. They don't understand. They don't want to understand, because they don't care. Damn them for not knowing. Damn them for not understanding.

I find my alone space, my place of silent sanctuary. My heart is beating in anticipation, as if I was meeting a lover instead of preparing to hurt myself. The adrenaline is rushing through my body, my cheeks flushed and my eyes gleaming. The heat of power and control shivers up my spine, as it would were I stroking the soft flesh of another. I gently stroke my wrist, where I plan to cut. The desire is intense. I find the blade where I have hidden it. I sit quietly for a moment, feeling as I imagine a powerful sorceress would just before beginning an incantation. I draw the blade lightly across my wrist, gasping as the intense stinging pain radiates up my arm. I watch the tiny droplets of blood bead up on the cat-scratch mark on my wrist. The world begins to slow. My breathing becomes more even, the madly whirling colors in my head a little calmer. I take another deep breath as I cut again. Sometimes I make a new cut, sometimes when I am particularly desperate I deepen the first cut. My eyelids flutter with the new surge of pain. Real pain, physical pain. Pain that I know what to do with, pain that I control.

Another cut or two, depending on the severity of the inner hurt, and the ritual is done. The sacrifice is complete. The world is still, with the total and complete stillness that comes after a devastating storm. Well-being washes over me. I am strong again, I am able, and I can keep things together for a little longer. Things will be all right now, at least for a week or so. I put the blade away. I blot the blood from my wrist and cover the cuts with a bandage. No need for others to see this. They wouldn't understand it. They'd be upset by it. I don't want to upset them.

On one level I know that others are frightened by the cutting, but sometimes I want desperately to talk about it, to examine it, pick open the wound and let the blood flow freely from it. Perhaps if it bleeds enough, it will be cleaned out? Perhaps the swirling storm of pain and self-hate will not return? It's a nice thought, but more often my attempts to talk about it trigger yet another frightened withdrawal, which starts the whole process over again.

Over the next few days, each time my wrist gets wet I'll gasp again as the pain shoots up my arm from the narrow cut. When the world starts to spin, I'll idly rub at the scab and things will calm again. Once the cut is fully healed, leaving only a tiny silvery scar that will fade in a few months, the cycle may start again. The terrible and utter loneliness will return. I'll sit trembling, afraid to reach out to a friend, afraid that the touch may not be accepted. After an agony of time, I will muster all my courage and try. And again my heart will be in my throat as I hold my breath and pray that this time, she will understand and be able to simply sit there and hold my hand until the storm passes. And perhaps she will. But perhaps she won't.

-- 14 February 2000