My essay on self-injury

It’s a crazy thing, that you do this. You know this for a fact. People have to be really screwed up to hurt themselves on purpose, don’t they? At least that’s the way that movies and books make it seem. Only crazies hurt themselves. Normal people talk things out, go for a jog, take their anger out on others, shop too much, cry themselves to sleep. How you wish and hope and pray that you could be normal. If only it were enough to only cry, run, pound on things. Just once. To be done with hiding yourself, wearing long sleeves when its 100 degrees outside and humid, to not have to cleverly disguise your wrists by wearing big watches or enormous amounts of beaded bracelets, to no longer need to make up excuses about “that car accident I had before I met you,” stray cats who scratch (you fool no one; only a Siberian tiger could scratch like that, and really, what are the odds that you run into one of those on a regular basis?), the run-in you had with the out-of control blender or that window pane that dropped on your arm at Home Depot.
It all started out so innocently… a fight, or a time when no one was listening, or learning by accident that when you were upset and then you fell down and scraped your knee that watching the blood pool on your skin made you feel nice and numb inside. The tools were simpler then: the cap of a pen, a fingernail, maybe a pen knife. Or you could really economize and just hit your hand over and over into a wall, no tools needed and easy to do anywhere as long as you could be alone. And over the years those became simply put, inadequate. They didn’t cause enough pain, not enough blood, not enough numbness, anymore. You graduated to sneaking a butter knife out of the kitchen drawer, using that random piece of glass found on the sidewalk. But no need to worry, you weren’t like the really crazy ones, the ones who used razor blades and needed stitches and hung out in the ER. No, you justified to yourself as you blotted up a few drops of blood with the edge of your sleeve, you’re not like that. You just cut a little, you just have a little problem with sharp objects sometimes. If you ever got that bad, don’t worry, you’d get help; then there would really be a problem. You never imagine that years later, you hunt for stray glass, you have to gash your skin with Schick supersharp and will ponder where to find a scalpel like surgeons use. This isn’t a problem yet, you rationalize. No, you’re still not one of those crazy people who really have a problem. You only plot when you’ll be able to sneak off to the store to buy your razor blades. You only compare prices, deciding if 10 for $2.79 (with coupon) is a good deal or if you could get them cheaper at Walmart. You just stand in the aisle calculating that you could get 5 good cuts out of each blade, the store brand, 10 for $2.99, or 10 good cuts out of the better, sharper brand, 5 blades for $3.29. Heaven forbid if the store only has the single edge kind, where you don’t really get your money’s worth but they do make a better cut, so you weigh in on how you’re feeling: do you want more relief, or do you need to save some money?

No, this isn’t a problem yet, but wait.

Hold on kids, this is great fun: first you go open your new package of razor blades just outside the store, so you can throw away the box, and hide the blades in your purse. Then make sure you have the right kind of bandages on hand. Do you feel today like some small band-aids might work, or is today one of those days when you better have some gauze and tape ready? Is today a day when you might want to make sure you’ve got paper towels, too?
No wait, it gets better. You still don’t have a problem, but you go home, fighting back your inner demons and trying not to cry, trying not to be weak, while you carefully gather up your supplies and sit at the bathroom sink: one new razor blade, one large super-absorbant bandaid (its just been that kind of day, so you’re ready), two paper towels, rubbing alcohol (makes the cut sting more, when you wash it out--- two injuries for the price of one), all lined up with medical precision. Today is a day when you planned ahead; you felt the pain building up inside, knew it would become too much because it began as too much. Right now you cut for control. Not like some days, when you cry all day and rush around the house, digging through drawers, desperate to find anything to cut with, and in an act of impulsiveness you rip through your flesh without thinking and find yourself curled up in a corner of the closet, still crying. No, today is one of those days when you calculated: at 3:30 I’ll have time to go to the store, I have a $5 bill with me so I can get the name brand, and can be home in time to cut and clean up before Oprah comes on at 4:00. Today you plan to enjoy it. You weigh the risks and benefits of where you are going to cut today. Would it feel better on your leg? Is it a day when you’re not going to waste time and go straight to your wrists(outside only--- remember, only crazies cut where it could kill them)? You decide on your forearm. Since you’re taking your time today, it might take a moment to build up your nerve; you know you’re going to go for broke today, it’s the only way for you to deal with the ache inside. Cautiously (how much of a joke is that? You’re sitting there with a sharp object in your hand, ready to draw your own blood) you bring the blade to your skin and dig in sharply with the corner. It hurts for a split second, then the relief comes with the first droplet of blood. Then you feel nothing. Not enough yet—go deeper still, into the fat, til the skin spreads apart and the crimson bubbles up. Relief floods you as you watch red tears coursing down your arm, dropping with a heavy plop onto the paper towels. This isn’t a problem yet, remember, you’re just bleeding and watching it, holding the wound open and watching the yellow globules of fat stick out. You’re in control; it’s you who decides how long to let it bleed, how long before you begin to hold back the blood with the paper towels, you who decides if you put alcohol and ointment on it, decides how bad you think you might want the scars to be, how fast you want it to heal. After all, you rationalize, its your body and your life and only you can hurt you; no one else can, you won’t let them. You lean back against the wall, exhausted, happy, ignoring the ghastly realization that you’re one of those crazy people who hurts themselves. It’s not a problem, this thing you do; what the problem was is that you were hurting so much to begin with before you cut. Now you’re done, those blessed brain chemicals have done their job, and you find yourself sleepy and a million miles away--- that’s not a problem at all. For right now, you’ve once again saved yourself. You didn’t need anyone else to help, it didn’t matter that you were alone. You’ve helped yourself--- isn’t that what therapists, self-help books, and parents tell you to do? To take care of yourself? Nothing hurts as much as everything inside. There, you’ve done it, and it only cost you $4. 52 total, including the brand-name bandages, and a life time of lies, secrets, self-hate, and long-sleeved t-shirts..

Posted by pilgrim | Filed under:

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