afigurativenumber
Member
- Apr 30, 2023
- 8
The first time ever, in my entire life. Before, I slapped rubber bands against my skin, drew designs in my wrist with thumbtacks, watched gore and extreme porn to punish myself… It hurts but I feel… oddly proud. For so long I've wanted to cover my arms with permanent lines, but I've been too afraid of the pain. Simply holding the blade up to my skin has facilitated shaking hands and hesitation.
But now? This morning? I like to think that for a moment, I lost my cowardliness. That I can train it out of me so eventually I will be open to methods that involve pain. Oh, and how that will open now paths never explored. If I wasn't so scared of the pain of it, I would have killed myself years ago.
I drew first a line into my skin with a pen, a guideline to tell me where to cut, on the upper part of my lower, inner arm, quite close to the inside of my elbow. Definitive instruction has always helped me. Then I tried a box cutter, held it hard against my skin and drew it across. It barely hurt, and I thought it had been too dull, before I saw later that blood was beading along where I had drawn it. Well I had an exacto-knife too, one that I had brought with me because I had expected the box cutter to be dull. I drew it over the same line, pressing first soft and then harder until there was an unbearable stinging, to which my progress across the line slowed to a crawl as I tried to cope with the pain. I got halfway before I tapped out and took the blade away. And there, like my messiah, was a little scarlet droplet of blood sluggishly making its way across my arm. Followed by a few more, beading all along the cut in beautiful crimson gems.
And I couldn't help but laugh. Through tears, as what had caused me to resort to this was still making its way through my mind, I laughed so joyously over this little thing, this little breakage of skin. Because it was mine. Done by me. I have made art, written poetry and prose, and yet nothing was more satisfying than what I saw there. That perfectly straight, red cut. My Opus. And I repeated to myself there as blood continued its path, "I am not a coward anymore."
I hope this isn't some fluke, some one-off, and I will be brave enough to continue even once my mind has calmed itself. But if I can't, I will revel in this as the one time that I wasn't useless, and crept closer to my ultimate goal.
But now? This morning? I like to think that for a moment, I lost my cowardliness. That I can train it out of me so eventually I will be open to methods that involve pain. Oh, and how that will open now paths never explored. If I wasn't so scared of the pain of it, I would have killed myself years ago.
I drew first a line into my skin with a pen, a guideline to tell me where to cut, on the upper part of my lower, inner arm, quite close to the inside of my elbow. Definitive instruction has always helped me. Then I tried a box cutter, held it hard against my skin and drew it across. It barely hurt, and I thought it had been too dull, before I saw later that blood was beading along where I had drawn it. Well I had an exacto-knife too, one that I had brought with me because I had expected the box cutter to be dull. I drew it over the same line, pressing first soft and then harder until there was an unbearable stinging, to which my progress across the line slowed to a crawl as I tried to cope with the pain. I got halfway before I tapped out and took the blade away. And there, like my messiah, was a little scarlet droplet of blood sluggishly making its way across my arm. Followed by a few more, beading all along the cut in beautiful crimson gems.
And I couldn't help but laugh. Through tears, as what had caused me to resort to this was still making its way through my mind, I laughed so joyously over this little thing, this little breakage of skin. Because it was mine. Done by me. I have made art, written poetry and prose, and yet nothing was more satisfying than what I saw there. That perfectly straight, red cut. My Opus. And I repeated to myself there as blood continued its path, "I am not a coward anymore."
I hope this isn't some fluke, some one-off, and I will be brave enough to continue even once my mind has calmed itself. But if I can't, I will revel in this as the one time that I wasn't useless, and crept closer to my ultimate goal.
