brunmiel14

I self-injure. I cut. I draw blood like I’m opening a valve to let the bad thoughts out. There, I said it. I’ve never really put this down in writing, not in the most private and personal journal. But the anonymity of the web is so merciful; I like that others don’t know who I am when I say these things.

It’s a 2-inch, half teeth, and half smooth kitchen knife. The thought of the original purpose of the instrument sickens me, like I’m a food item or one of those frozen dinner boxes you stab your initials into while you wait for the microwave to be done. At first it was one of the more fearsome steak knives, with the sharp teeth from handle to point, but I just couldn’t take the pain. I still have scars from then when the new knives’ slashes have healed and gone. There are small holes near my knee where I have tried an actual razor. All I could stand was a dull pain brought on by pressing a corner into my flesh. I was initially delighted at how easily it broke the skin with little pain to speak of. But then I was scared at how the spherical flow of blood was hard to stop. So I had my choice of two knives with the same blade of differing lengths. I liked that they were cheap. Like there was no significance to what I would do to myself. I think the same mentality went into my choice of the shorter blade.

Last night I sat in the bathtub trying to stay focused on reading an informative book that didn’t seem to be giving me the answers I wanted about myself. My feelings matched that of the book’s author, but I didn’t go on screaming rages like she did. I am closer to normal than she was; shouldn’t I just suck it up? Maybe. But I can’t. I left a wake of hurting, confused people, and I’m not about to stop. Why the hell was I born? Enough water has drained from the tub that my arms are no longer immersed; in fact they’re cold and uncomfortable, and undeniably perfect. I looked at my legs first and decided they needed a rest. Eventually, shorts won’t hide everything. My forearms and wrists are the perfect candidates with their suntanned, frequently exposed and impervious skin. But the last thing I need is to wear sleeves in the summer and risk being picked apart by my family.

Upper arms it is. I could already make out the last two ordeals on that arm. If you wanted, you could tell how old they were, like they do with tree rings. But why would you want to? Every millimeter of steel calls to me, and I come without a word. Six thin, short, barely bleeding cuts. It doesn’t count yet. I pour alcohol on the area, and with too much spilling out I breathe hard at the cold fluid hitting the sensitive skin under which sympathetic blood has swollen to attend the breach. I pull taut from the shoulder and draw a sharp breath from the sting, bare my teeth, and turn my head. It’s not over until I run the blade gently over the wounds, collecting the excess blood. It’s done when I see the reflective steel under the red and rinse it under the tap.

It’s at those times among many others that I cut. Other times will be after the shell-shock-like memories that come back which seem to be all I have left of parts of my past. Actually, those memories at times makes me want to have screaming, angry fits…so maybe I’m not that different from the book’s author. I’m so internal, though, that my usual response is to play attention-demanding music on my headphones as loud as I can stand.