"Hailey leaned over into the shower again, grabbing a razor
sitting on the side of the bath. She had pried it from the blade of a shaver a
few weeks ago, and it sat on the side of the tub, unnoticed by either of her
parents. But it was there for her, smiling in its coy way, calling her name in
such a soft sweet voice. She dropped her towel, it hitting the tiled floor with
a muffled sigh, something that only echoed in the silence of the moment. Her
grip was that of an expert as she pressed the blade to the upper part of her
thigh. It only took a moment for it to break through the skin, a red stream
suddenly soaking into her hands and down the length of her leg. The pain echoed
through her, at first a fierce tearing throughout her whole leg, a tremor
bouncing and rattling inside of her bones--then in one concentrated area,
burning along the straight line of the cut. Hailey examined it, the fifth in a
row, the others on top of already healing, scabbing over. And this new blood,
so bright red, spilling down her leg dripping off the sides of her knees. The
pain was gone now, and she wanted it back, craved for it. She dug her nails
into the cut, opening up the sides of the wound. And it was good, very good,
somehow and someway. The wall was cool against her back as she let herself
slide down it, catching her like a comforting hand. The walls were her only
comfort, and they didn't even really exist at all."
I wrote that, not that long ago. The first draft was my sophmore year, this is the edited draft. I'm hoping that this draft is a little bit more prolific, but if not, oh well. A character, Hailey, in one of my stories, Italian Bakery, cuts herself. This is the first time I wrote about it, the first time I described it. It is the readers first clue to just how messed up Hailey is. I put it in here because I feel like talking about cutting. It is something I have to talk about, it is something I can't help but thinking about.
First I would like to say that I lose respect for anyone who says people only cut themselves because they want attention. These people, they sadden me, they don't even realize how stupid they are making themselves sound with their words. Whether someone cuts themselves on their wrists or legs, or tells no one or everyone, theye don't do it because they want attention, they do it because they need attention. They need it so badly. No one self harms because they want to be the center of attention, they self harm because they need attention, need it so badly. And sometimes they don't even know how badly they need it. I can imagine that if anyone who was going to cut had someone grab their hands and tell them to stop and they cared about them, and that they really meant it and didn't just say it, that they would stop. I hold that faith, I really do, and I wish so badly I had someone there to say and show it to me.
Here's the thing about me, I used to hurt myself. I had a special way of doing it, but I guess everyone has their own way of doing things. I cut in my upper right thigh, practically on the hip bone. And I used a steak knife and I didn't so much as cut, as much as I did scrape. And it was always in the same spot, always over the place. I hardly ever bled, as it was scraping and not really cutting. Instead what I had when I was done was something soft and glistening, pink raw skin that I would baptize in soapy water to make my pain last a little bit longer. I wanted to feel the burn, I deserved the burn. I cut myself for reasons that I really can't explain. I just did, and it's not an act you think about very much. It's something that you just do. I was there, cutting the scar deeper and deeper into my leg. And it was anything that I felt that made me do it, anything at all. If I couldn't be stone then I had to feel something, and when I felt something I had to make the scar deeper. And it wasn't even so much about ceremony or anything for me. It was just something. Sometimes, I remember, sitting there and watching tv, totally involved in the program, and my right hand was there, digging deeper into my leg. There was one day too, where my mom saw the scar. It was fresh, the last cut had only been a few hours before. I was changing and she walked in (which wasn't weird because my mom and I shared a bedroom for the first fourteen years of my life). She saw it on my legs and bluntly asked, "What is that?" to which I answered, in I'm pretty sure the exact same tone and she had, "I cut myself." I remember her asking then if she was going to have to get me some help. And it terrified me, the thought of some person trying to understand me when I know I couldn't be understood. And so I said, "No Mom, just no." She never asked me about it again after that day. She also never made any efforts to hide any of the knives in the house or check my legs again. That was my Mom. Somehow I eventually stopped cutting myself. I'm not sure what made me stop. There wasn't a magic moment where I thought, I'm going to stop cutting myself. It just happened, just like the the cutting happened.I managed not to cut myself for a long time. The last time I cut was in when I was fourteen, but then I relapsed again in high school. It was my senior year, the day of my birthday, I cut myself again. I did it in the exact same way as last time, only I was so much more aware of it this time. It hurt much worse than it had in middle school, or at least more than I remembered it to. And I watched it, and I enjoyed it, cutting deeper and deeper. I cut my arm the day of my birthday, not my leg. I got away with by telling people a picture frame had fallen off the wall and cut my arm.
But the thing is that is hard to understand is that even though the cutting stopped in eight grade and hasn't happened again since my senior year, that the harming never really stopped. There are so many other ways to hurt yourself without leaving a mark, you can beat yourself, hitting myself over my head is my particular favorite. You can rip and pull your hair out. And you can tell yourself, over and over, how pathetic you are. That's the worst of it, just sitting there and crying and telling myself, Keshia you are pathetic and stupid. It's so hard to hate yourself, and it's the worse kind of harm you can do to yourself, and yet I can't stop doing it. It's too hard to stop hating yourself. And even if I'm not physically hurting myself, the base of the problem is still there, I hate myself. The first time I remember being aware of hating myself was when I was eight years old. I was in my room, and I remembered I was freshly showered because my hair was wet and sticking to my shoulders. I had a ribbon, a ribbon full of beads, and my sister Jeannie was with me. I took the ribbon and started to take the beads off, one by one. I told Jeannie that the beads were people, and everytime they said something to me or did something to me, that they came off the ribbon. There were no more beads on the ribbon and then I told Jeannie, that it was me, it was the only thing I was. I don't and cannot no matter how hard I try, remember her response. I only remember the ribbon and how pathetic it looked, all curled up and empty. It was me and I hated myself. And I don't think it was so much of a realization but more of a just now knowing the answer. I mean, that had to be something wrong with me for the while ribbon demonstration to happen in the first place.
And with everything that has happened in my life, twelve years later, I still think I hate myself. I cannot say why I hate myself or what it is I hate about myself. If I knew I would fix it, but I just don't know. I don't, okay? I just hate myself. And I can get happy or sad or any emotion under the rainbow, but down to my core I hate myself. I like the person I am and I like what I am doing for myself, but I hate myself, every part of me. And I know how confusing that sounds, because it is confusing. How can I both like and hate myself at the same time, and the answer is, I don't know. I just don't fucking know about it. And leave me alone about it, stop asking me why. If I knew the answer I would anser it but I don't, okay?
And I'm saying this because I've been feeling this way again. I want to hurt myself, I feel like I deserve to be hurt. I won't because I know I don't need to. And it's only in certain moments, here and there, it doesn't permeate every part of me. The Keshia I used to be, the one who hurt herself with a knife everyday, she didn't have a moments. She lived in it, every second and every day was divided into different divisions of hating myself. I'm a lot better now, it only happens in moments, small little whispering things in the back of my head. And I'm not going to do anything to make it get worse, I'm really not. But I'm not sure how to make it go away either.
Fin.
-Keshia
Currently Reading Peter and Wendy by J.M. Barrie
But the thing is that is hard to understand is that even though the cutting stopped in eight grade and hasn't happened again since my senior year, that the harming never really stopped. There are so many other ways to hurt yourself without leaving a mark, you can beat yourself, hitting myself over my head is my particular favorite. You can rip and pull your hair out. And you can tell yourself, over and over, how pathetic you are. That's the worst of it, just sitting there and crying and telling myself, Keshia you are pathetic and stupid. It's so hard to hate yourself, and it's the worse kind of harm you can do to yourself, and yet I can't stop doing it. It's too hard to stop hating yourself. And even if I'm not physically hurting myself, the base of the problem is still there, I hate myself. The first time I remember being aware of hating myself was when I was eight years old. I was in my room, and I remembered I was freshly showered because my hair was wet and sticking to my shoulders. I had a ribbon, a ribbon full of beads, and my sister Jeannie was with me. I took the ribbon and started to take the beads off, one by one. I told Jeannie that the beads were people, and everytime they said something to me or did something to me, that they came off the ribbon. There were no more beads on the ribbon and then I told Jeannie, that it was me, it was the only thing I was. I don't and cannot no matter how hard I try, remember her response. I only remember the ribbon and how pathetic it looked, all curled up and empty. It was me and I hated myself. And I don't think it was so much of a realization but more of a just now knowing the answer. I mean, that had to be something wrong with me for the while ribbon demonstration to happen in the first place.
And with everything that has happened in my life, twelve years later, I still think I hate myself. I cannot say why I hate myself or what it is I hate about myself. If I knew I would fix it, but I just don't know. I don't, okay? I just hate myself. And I can get happy or sad or any emotion under the rainbow, but down to my core I hate myself. I like the person I am and I like what I am doing for myself, but I hate myself, every part of me. And I know how confusing that sounds, because it is confusing. How can I both like and hate myself at the same time, and the answer is, I don't know. I just don't fucking know about it. And leave me alone about it, stop asking me why. If I knew the answer I would anser it but I don't, okay?
And I'm saying this because I've been feeling this way again. I want to hurt myself, I feel like I deserve to be hurt. I won't because I know I don't need to. And it's only in certain moments, here and there, it doesn't permeate every part of me. The Keshia I used to be, the one who hurt herself with a knife everyday, she didn't have a moments. She lived in it, every second and every day was divided into different divisions of hating myself. I'm a lot better now, it only happens in moments, small little whispering things in the back of my head. And I'm not going to do anything to make it get worse, I'm really not. But I'm not sure how to make it go away either.
Fin.
-Keshia
Currently Reading Peter and Wendy by J.M. Barrie
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