My first self-harm story (TW)

I wonder what was going through my mind. All I can remember now is that the knife immediately hurt when I pressed it to my skin. I think I had pictured it like cutting cloth, slicing wrapping paper from the roll, or even cutting open some rubber, like a basketball or something. I thought the skin would easily slice open as I dragged the knife through it and the blood would simply pour out. But that first sting stopped me. I would learn it was like a mating ritual, that this first part of the dance, the fear and fascination, was just the beginning of the deep brutal act to come, the inhuman-looking consummation.

I don’t remember if this was the first time or not; it’s difficult to remember if there even was a first time. But this is the one that changed me. I was cutting across the wrist. It’s not clear to me now what I really intended to do, I was just entranced by the idea. It was like playing guitar, I didn’t know how to do it, and didn’t have any interest in right or wrong ways, but was just compelled to do the activity. Something about the hands-ness of it was satisfying, too. It was an action I was doing. I was doing a thing. At first I sketched, I took it slow. Then when it got numb enough, I would start to apply more pressure, more focused cuts, drawing a single line, more and more narrow until it was a single crack in the surface, a sliver, opening. I would just run over and over over the same divot, like a groove in a record. For musicians, it was like jamming on the same riff over and over, each time moving closer and closer to the pocket, then playing with variations, widening that groove.

As I dug deeper into my skin, shredding layers, it became more like guitar playing, like strumming across tendons. I could feel this deep, very wrong, horrible resonance through my muscle when I scraped the flesh. I continued, innocently, hypnotized. To say I don’t know where I was in that moment would be wrong: I was right there, perfectly present, totally one with the activity, and that’s why I can never retrieve those thoughts. My mind is still there, so cohesive was the bond I made with that moment. I “left it all on the stage” as a performer might say. But that bond was split when my skin, out of nowhere, fell open. I must have severed the bottom most layer of skin, because the wound was suddenly literally gaping. It was like a hole in a baggy shirt. My wrist was just hanging open, like a ghost, a mummy. I was terrified, but it’s hard to remember it. I had that feeling of “Emergency!” I didn’t know what to do. I must have had some paper towels or an old sock or something that I used to soak up the blood. I gathered up the mess and began to sneak my way down the hall to the bathroom, blood pooling as I hugged the wound into my chest. Right at that moment, my step-mom came out of her room and saw my accident and made a gaspy shhhh sound (the sound Peter Griffin makes when he scrapes his knee). She never brought it up again, and I suspect she was half-asleep and dreaming through it. I got to the bathroom and somehow tied my arm up with bandages and medical tape, enough to make the bleeding finally stop. My horror switched to amazement, even pride, that I was able to do that and NOT die. I didn’t have to go to the ER or anything. I could take myself that far and then safely return on my own. All in secret.

From then on it was either long sleeves or those leather studded bracelets that kids into punk rock used to wear. If I could line up a couple wide bracelets over it, I could basically hide the wet bandage well enough that no one was bold enough to mention it. Except for one kid in history class. I raised my hand and the bracelet accidentally slipped down my arm, taking the bandage with it. The student quickly pointed to the damp, mangled red wound and yelled out “he cut it the wrong way!” then laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. He was just a kid, of course, but it was obviously humiliating. As I recall, most people, including the teacher, responded to my embarrassment with silence. I took this silence as compassion at the time, but looking back had I been the adult in that situation I would have had to take some kind of control and report the situation. The “kindness” of those who remained silent taught me that I could continue doing it, and the sting of the humiliation taught me to do it better and protect my wounds more. But the single greatest motivating factor was the art of it. One of my most grandiose cuts was an intricate set of lines all connecting to each other, on my leg, that struck me later as like a piece to a jigsaw puzzle.