The Cut That Started It All

To be honest with you, I don’t remember the first time I did it. I never really cut at first.. It was more like scratching. I used to get my key and scratch my arm with it. It hurt… That was all I wanted at the time. That began over a year ago.

Why did I do it, you may ask..? Well I felt so helpless, I had no control over anything in my life and I thought that it would help, but it was more than that too! I felt numb. Nothing made me feel anything, but when I scratched myself, I felt pain… And I deserved to feel pain.

Everything was my fault. My parents’ divorce, my sister dropping out of college, my best friend getting pregnant… All my fault. After everything I’d done, I deserved to suffer. I deserved to feel pain and only pain.

But it got to a point where just scratching my skin wasn’t enough… I had to bleed. I had to use a knife. I remember the first time I did that. It was the start of the school year. I remember why too.  Being a redhead, naturally I get a lot of abuse for the colour of my hair. You’d think after fifteen years I’d be used to being called ginger. But that day it irked me more than usual. It wasn’t just the word… I’m fine with the word… It was the way it was said. It just made me feel so worthless. Like because of the colour of my hair, nothing about me matters. So that night while I was sitting on my bed crying while questioning life, the universe and everything, I opted to use a knife rather than a key.

And it was liberating. 

That night I learned just how sadistic I really am. As soon as I made that first cut, my tears stopped. I was in awe… The sight of blood had been what I was really craving. It was amazing. I loved it. I loved how it felt to be in control.. I loved how the knife felt in my hand. I loved how the blood dripped down my arm. I loved every second of it.

Soon I became completely addicted. Almost every night I would mutilate my arm. A smarter person would have chosen the thigh, or somewhere easier to hide, but that was the least of my concern at the time. I didn’t care where it was because I didn’t want to live.

Months later I stopped. But it didn’t last long. I did it again. And then I stopped. And did it again. Stopped. Again.

Needless to say… I can’t stop.

It’s my drug.

I need it.

But I’m not as reckless as before. It’s not as often. Not as dangerous.