this is a bit of the story i was writing but i've lost my motivation. it's not so much a story as stream-of-consciousness notes of my little problem.
//�I think I might be crazy,� I say to my reflection as I curiously observe the blood seeping into the wound I just inflicted upon myself, red liquid pooling in the incision and running down my arm. I lick it, tasting the saltiness of my life�s source, remembering the first time I tasted blood. I was maybe 5, my dad was trying to organize his fishing pole and I was holding onto the end of the fishing wire when he yanked on it suddenly, the hook sticking into my finger. I screamed and ran to him, as he pulled it out and told me to suck the blood. I couldn�t, so he did, telling me the saliva will stop the flow. Later, I taste the blood for myself, realize it�s not that bad, it tastes like the tears falling from my eyes and pooling around my lips, and it did stop the blood flow. I think of this as further inspection of my cut shows me that I haven�t hit a vein; not this time, at least. Just a small cut, deeper than usual and it will leave a scar, but nothing life threatening.
And I�m not trying to threaten my life. I�m not even seeking attention. I�m not necessarily crying out for help. That�s what it started out as, but now it�s a ritual, a practice, an escape from my emotions, or a release of emotions. I want to feel something other than that immense pain in the pit of my soul; little cuts, just one step above paper cuts, help.
�Doesn�t it hurt?� people ask. No, it doesn�t hurt. It might sting, but it�s a welcome sensation.
I glance at myself in the mirror. My mascara isn�t running; I shed no tears. I�ve given up on crying. Every few weeks I�ll end up collapsing onto my dorm room floor, when I�m sure no one is around, and sob my heart out but I don�t tear. I have a sneaking suspicion my tear ducts have dried up.
�When did this start?� is a common question. I remember the night distinctly. I�d had a terrible night at work, a hostess at Applebee�s, and all I wanted to do was to shower so I get in and am washing my hair when the water turns ice cold. I jump out of the shower, throw in a bathrobe, and run around the house to find out which bastard turned on the dishwasher or the washing machine. I discover the asshole foreign exchange student living with us for a semester has gotten into the other shower. I learn the meaning of the term �hopping mad� as I scream and jump around the bathroom, my mom telling me to calm down and my brother telling me to shut the fuck up. I lock myself in the bathroom, seeing red, and then dig out a pair of scissors. I�m furious and curious and wondering what it�s like, so I quickly slice the tip of my index finger on my left hand. Immediately, my anger pours out from that cut and my vision returns to normal. I�m entranced by the blood droplets spurting out and impressed by my bravery.
The next day at school I run into my best friend, Joanna, by the lockers. I hold up my finger, say, �Look, I cut myself,� and smile slightly, wondering what her response to be. I suspect she�ll be concerned; I want her to hug me and ask me why I did that. Instead, she laughs and imitates someone slicing up their wrists, thinking I did it on accident, mocking the silly little emo girls. My visage turns cloudy, but I immediately mask it with a laugh and turn back to my locker. She doesn�t believe me; why would anyone else?
I don�t remember the next time I cut, but I fall into a routine. Instead of scissors, I use an eyebrow razor my friend brought me from Hong Kong. I know it will never cut deep enough to do any real harm, and I don�t start getting permanent scars until a year and a half later. It�s an every-couple-of-months thing, to test myself, to relieve my anger, to release my emotions when I can�t express them by words.
This continues throughout my last two years of high school. Eventually, I tell other friends. They don�t know what to do with me, and I don�t know what I expect from them. I don�t want sympathy; I don�t want empathy; I don�t want understanding. I want someone to tell me I won�t feel this way forever. I want someone to tell me it�s ok that I do this, it�s normal, it�s common. I want someone to tell me why I�m doing this to myself. Deep down, I know I want attention and people to feel sorry for the poor little suburban brat and to be impressed with my bravery. I want to talk to someone else who does it. My friends are not depressed; they are happy teenagers, enjoying their youth. I am sad, I cannot wait for the future, I cannot wait to move out of my mother�s house and move away from this Podunk town and everything will be ok once I get out of here. That�s what I convince the therapist my mom sends me to after my friends call her and tell her about my self-injury habit.
She cries that night. She is disgusted by me. She is ashamed of me. She is scared of me. She calls my father. He comes over, bringing his roommate Karen, a family friend. I tell him it�s his fault, his alcohol habit, and refuse to talk about it. Karen tells me she used to do that too. I can�t speak. I shiver with muted sobs.
My mother is distraught, and that�s when I feel guilty. How could I do this to her? How could I hurt her like this? How can I be so unhappy? Why can�t I talk to her about it? These are the messages she sends me. I�m a fuck-up, just like her son, and it�s her fault.
This doesn�t help. It�s not about anyone else; I was wrong to blame my father, just another scapegoat. It�s me, it�s my spirit, it�s my mind working against me. They suggest drugs; I say if this is the way I am naturally then I�ll learn to cope. I can hide the cuts. No one ever noticed, no one ever said, so, Morgan, did your cat attack your wrist thinking it was catnip or do you need to talk? People asked me how I was, but only to make themselves feel better. Friends get mad at me for their not being able to understand, for my not being able to explain. This doesn�t help.
Nothing helps. So I stop cutting. I put on an act for my friends, for my mother, for my father. I don�t talk to my brother. I sleep. I watch tv.//
the end.