December 2, 2003, from Stew
Self-Harm
What kind of freak am I? What kind of person subjects himself to being cut by his own hands? And not only that, but sometimes enjoys it? I’m not sure what kind of freak that is, but that type of behavior has become commonplace for me.
I first started cutting about two years ago. Sure, I had held a razor to my wrist once or twice, but never did any tangible damage. But on that morning in October I just couldn’t deal with life anymore, and I took a knife and ran it over my arms a couple of times . . . and it felt good. I felt relief from pains being released. As bizarre as it may sound, it felt wonderful.
And right now, writing about it here, I crave it. I crave seeing the blood slowly drip from the wound. It’s really pretty cool how it doesn’t start to bleed instantly, but how I have to sit and watch it start to form along the slice, and then slowly start to pool, and then follow gravity’s path down the arm, leaving a nice trail of crimson behind it.
Family members, therapists, friends, have all asked me, “Doesn’t it hurt?” Often there’s no feeling with it at all; I somewhat zone out as I’m performing my little “ritual.” Other times it’s an exquisitely delicious pain akin to ripping a band-aid off your skin – you know for a few brief seconds that pull is going to hurt, yet you look forward to it. I guess it’s also similar to the feeling that’s produced when eating hot peppers – yes, there’s a pain to it, but the endorphin rush more than makes up for it.
For me, cutting is often the only way to feel those endorphins. There’s nothing in life that motivates me anymore. I can spend 18 hours of the day sleeping and wish that I could sleep for the other 6 hours. I haven’t experienced what one could call “joy” in years. Cutting is sometimes the only thing I look forward to. And, in my opinion, cutting is very liberating. At one time I looked at myself and thought, “You know, I don’t really have too much to fear. If I ever got into a knife fight, I know I could survive.” Granted, I don’t know how well I’d survive if someone stabbed me, but there’s the bravissimo of knowing that a couple of slashes on the arm won’t stop me.
And that’s the irony of it all, in a sense: I’m willing to hurt myself, I’m willing to deprive myself of pleasure, but I have confidence knowing I can survive. Survive what? There’s nothing to my life but an empty shell. There are a few good people who might be lost without me for a little while, but in reality they’d be better off in the long run. There are a few more people who might be like, “Wow…Stew’s dead? Bummer.” And then the great majority of people would say, “We didn’t know he was still alive anyway.” That’s my life. And yet, I actually go to some lengths to preserve it.
My cutting ritual is actually pretty comical in a sense. I find my knife – a Wilkinson sword that I use for all types of chopping in the kitchen. I wash it real well with soap and hot water, and then I towel dry it. I then take my lighter (if I happen to have any booze in the house, I’ll first douse the blade in rum or tequila) and I run the blade through the flame a half dozen times – must get it nice and sterilized, don’t want to run the risk of infection now, do we? And then I typically proceed with thirteen cuts, about 8 on the left arm, and 5 on the right. Why 13? I don’t know. It’s mom’s favorite number (she was born on the 13th) and it just seems like an appropriate number. Oddly, if I were going to keep with my favorite number, it would be 11.
Afterwards, I wrap my arms up in towels and wait a few minutes. Then I put some ointment on the cuts (again, no pesky infections for me), and bandage up whatever needs to be bandaged up.
And this is the “joy” in my life. What kind of freak am I?
What kind of freak am I? What kind of person subjects himself to being cut by his own hands? And not only that, but sometimes enjoys it? I’m not sure what kind of freak that is, but that type of behavior has become commonplace for me.
I first started cutting about two years ago. Sure, I had held a razor to my wrist once or twice, but never did any tangible damage. But on that morning in October I just couldn’t deal with life anymore, and I took a knife and ran it over my arms a couple of times . . . and it felt good. I felt relief from pains being released. As bizarre as it may sound, it felt wonderful.
And right now, writing about it here, I crave it. I crave seeing the blood slowly drip from the wound. It’s really pretty cool how it doesn’t start to bleed instantly, but how I have to sit and watch it start to form along the slice, and then slowly start to pool, and then follow gravity’s path down the arm, leaving a nice trail of crimson behind it.
Family members, therapists, friends, have all asked me, “Doesn’t it hurt?” Often there’s no feeling with it at all; I somewhat zone out as I’m performing my little “ritual.” Other times it’s an exquisitely delicious pain akin to ripping a band-aid off your skin – you know for a few brief seconds that pull is going to hurt, yet you look forward to it. I guess it’s also similar to the feeling that’s produced when eating hot peppers – yes, there’s a pain to it, but the endorphin rush more than makes up for it.
For me, cutting is often the only way to feel those endorphins. There’s nothing in life that motivates me anymore. I can spend 18 hours of the day sleeping and wish that I could sleep for the other 6 hours. I haven’t experienced what one could call “joy” in years. Cutting is sometimes the only thing I look forward to. And, in my opinion, cutting is very liberating. At one time I looked at myself and thought, “You know, I don’t really have too much to fear. If I ever got into a knife fight, I know I could survive.” Granted, I don’t know how well I’d survive if someone stabbed me, but there’s the bravissimo of knowing that a couple of slashes on the arm won’t stop me.
And that’s the irony of it all, in a sense: I’m willing to hurt myself, I’m willing to deprive myself of pleasure, but I have confidence knowing I can survive. Survive what? There’s nothing to my life but an empty shell. There are a few good people who might be lost without me for a little while, but in reality they’d be better off in the long run. There are a few more people who might be like, “Wow…Stew’s dead? Bummer.” And then the great majority of people would say, “We didn’t know he was still alive anyway.” That’s my life. And yet, I actually go to some lengths to preserve it.
My cutting ritual is actually pretty comical in a sense. I find my knife – a Wilkinson sword that I use for all types of chopping in the kitchen. I wash it real well with soap and hot water, and then I towel dry it. I then take my lighter (if I happen to have any booze in the house, I’ll first douse the blade in rum or tequila) and I run the blade through the flame a half dozen times – must get it nice and sterilized, don’t want to run the risk of infection now, do we? And then I typically proceed with thirteen cuts, about 8 on the left arm, and 5 on the right. Why 13? I don’t know. It’s mom’s favorite number (she was born on the 13th) and it just seems like an appropriate number. Oddly, if I were going to keep with my favorite number, it would be 11.
Afterwards, I wrap my arms up in towels and wait a few minutes. Then I put some ointment on the cuts (again, no pesky infections for me), and bandage up whatever needs to be bandaged up.
And this is the “joy” in my life. What kind of freak am I?
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