Skeletons in the Closet

We all have them, although nobody likes to or is even willing to admit it. Well, here I am. Here to throw out a skeleton I've been hiding, gathering dust, shoved to the back of the closet, as if not seeing it would make it go away. Well, this skeleton can't just disappear. It needs to rot first, decay. And it does just that, except it's not in the right place. It should be buried, but instead it sits in my closet, stinking up the whole place and leaving me wondering why I'm keeping it around letting it ruin my day with its stench. So today's the day I'm going to take it out, dust it off, examine it a little, and then BURY it under mounds of dirt where it belongs.

I am a cutter.

I say "am" not because I still engage in the behavior, but because I see it as how a recovering addict sees their former drug use. No matter how long I have been free from it, there is still a tiny part of my brain that will always think old thoughts, recall old habits, remember what brought me to this behavior in the first place. I keep these memories not because I want to go back, but because they remind me of where I once was, and of the person I was trying to escape - myself.

I had so many crazy, irrational emotions then, which is what led me to cut the first time. After the first time, it gets easier and easier to do it, to justify the behavior that, self-injurious and dangerous as it is, allows me freedom from my emotional uproar, if only for one minute. It is in that minute that I transfer the inward pain to a tangible outward pain, one I can see and feel and be in control of. It's all about control.

When I lose control of my emotions. That's when I cut. It starts small. The first few were no more than scratches, really. It started on my arm, but I threw that idea out when people would ask, What happened? Cat scratch, I told them. Safer places to cut are the legs because people see them a lot less, especially if you're not into wearing shorts. My shin. It starts on my left shin. One night I lose that control, I hate that I am crying, I hate that I am in pain, and I want it to go away. MAKE IT STOP! I take a straight-edge razor and lightly press it onto my skin. Sharp. I push harder, and begin sliding the razor across my shin until there is now a two-inch open wound on my leg and what have I done, I didn't mean for it to be so deep. I am kind of grossed out now because it's bleeding. And it hurts. Hurt. It has distracted my brain from the emotions I was feeling just a minute ago. And I realize, I can do this. I can make my insides stop hurting. I can transfer that pain to something I can control. I can control when it hurts, how much it hurts, and how long I let the hurt continue.

The second time I cut, I went deep on purpose. It hurts worse when you go deep.