Pain

A little cut

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I was surprised when I saw the blood trickle down my arm the first time.  I don’t know why really, I mean after all wasn’t that what I was trying to do? Bleed.  It was then I realised that I didn’t know what I had been trying to do.  I had been in a sort of fugue state ever since the argument.  It seemed like that was all I did recently, argue.  With everyone, my parents, my friends, my teachers.  Every day there was something new to fight about. 

 

This time was different though, Corinne was my best friend, had been for years and this was the first fight we had ever had.  Looking back I couldn’t even remember who started it, much less what it had been about.  All I could remember was the pain afterwards.  Like a heavy weight on my chest, threatening to crush me if I didn’t find some release.  I couldn’t cry, mum had spent years telling me when I was little that big girls don’t cry so after a while I guess I just forgot how, I couldn’t scream either, that had to be much worse than crying!  That was when I saw it.

 

 A little pair of scissors on my bedside table.

 

 The sun reflected of them and they seemed so bright, so clear.  They were my salvation and before I really knew what I was doing I had dragged the small blade over my arm.  Then came the trickle of blood, afterwards I was confused but it had made perfect sense at the time.  My head was clear for the first time in ages and it felt like all the stress and pain had floated away.  I called Corinne after that and we made up, laughing and joking about old times while I held the tissue to my arm to staunch the blood flow. 

 

She noticed it the next day, I lied and aid I must have done it accidentally, in my sleep “woops clumsy me” and all that jazz.  It didn’t matter much. It wasn’t like I was going to do it again anyway was it? 

 

But I did, from then on it became a habit, anytime the stress would build up all it took was one little cut and I would be me again.  Then it wasn’t even when I felt stressed I did it when I felt nothing.  So numb I wasn’t even sure if I existed or not, the blood, the pain it made me real.

 

I told my mum about it after I counted 17 scars.  She had been suspicious for a while and when I told her it looked like I would actually get some help.  We had a good cry together and she asked me if I wanted help. I said yes.  Later she changed her mind. Her reasoning? Only crazy people hurt themselves on purpose and since I wasn’t doing it anymore I wasn’t crazy.  I wasn’t so sure on that last point.

 

 

A few months later I tried to tell her again.  She tried to hide it but it was clear how upset and angry she was.  I couldn’t stand seeing her like that, after all she had been through

 

She is happier now.  Thinks I have stopped for good.  But between you and me?  I just got better at hiding the evidence.

Reviews

[Susan S.]

All your stories seem so dark! This one had the feel of a teen right from the beginning and all the numbness and pain and wanting to not hurt other people--it all is hauntingly familiar. I can believe she was in a depressive state and needed the help. It's so close to the real thing I'm wondering if you have personal experience with the feeling (or even the act)?

Again and excellent read.
Susan S

[Mutzy]

I enjoyed reading this, and could probably fill out to be a quite enjoyable story. I can relate to some, and not so much to other parts of it. Maybe, if you ever felt like it, I would try to add what I could here and there.