I decided to finally post something about cutting. I'm not gonna get into tons of reasons why I did it. I may post a list of reasons at a later date, but not now. Up until almost 17 months ago, I had been a self-injurer from the age of about 11 or so. Cutting became my baby; my most loved method of self-harm. But, it started out as wrist banging, then punching walls, dripping hot wax on really sensitive skin, scratching, etc.
So, I'm gonna write a little story that details one episode of many from when I was in highschool. Just as a warning for those that may share my affinity for sharp objects, this story could be triggering.
She sits in class, bouncing her legs beneath the table and trying to concentrate. The teacher's words have become an annoying buzz in her ears; white noise that she can't shut out. She feels the agitation rising; it's been too long.
Raising her hand, she askes to be excused to the bathroom. Upon receiving permission, she practically bolts from the room.
Once in the bathroom her breathing relaxes, but only slightly. She looks in the mirrors that are over the sinks, but only for a moment. It's become so that she avoids looking at herself in the mirror at all costs. Just one more thing that would cause more pain.
She hears voices coming towards the bathroom so she rushes into a stall and quickly bolts the door. Digging in her pocket, her hand closes over the metal boxcutter. Once the door closes and the voices fade, out comes the razor and up goes the sleeve.
Her arm is covered in wounds in various stages of healing. She brings the razor up and begins the strokes that bring sweet relief. Making slashes on the unmarked flesh of her inner arms, slicing through semi-healed cuts, she watches the blood begin to flow.
Her breathing relaxes entirely and a calming peace flows through her like a warm light. Using toilet paper to wipe up the blood, she lowers her sleeve and heads back to class.
One more day; one more crisis averted for the time being.
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