Blue Ink on Paper
Cutting and Burning
I still remember coming home after a long day with Albert's abuse. I went to my room and scratched myself up with that damn paperclip I found on the floor. My arms were covered in blood and little red lines. That whole time period of Albert's abuse was a blur, but I can never forget how high I felt from the self-inflicted pain.
As a kid I knew Mom would ask about it, so I had to wear sweaters for weeks. Still, I kept doing it. I learned to scratch underneath my clothes, especially on my vagina. Because I felt like maybe if I bled enough down there, I would feel pure again.
Then came seventh grade. Josh taught me to put out a cigarette on my flesh, and I loved the rush it gave me. Rows of burns began to show up on my stomach. Nobody would ever look there, I thought, figuring I never wanted to have sex anyway.
Then came Josh's suicide. I sat in seventh grade art class, trying to hold back tears, trying to keep myself from falling apart. Nobody talked about, or even mentioned, Josh. It was almost as if nobody cared. It was as if nobody even knew who he was.
That had to be the day Alicia and Eddie sat across from me in art. I tried to sketch Josh's face. He was so clear in my mind, that long, dirty blonde hair, the defined jawline. The intense blue eyes.
When I was done I sat back to admire my work.
"What is that supposed to be?" Alicia asked me.
I told her.
"It looks like a two year old drew that," she remarked. Eddie snorted.
I know that doesn't sound like much, but it sent me over the edge. I wanted to run out of the room and fall to my knees, sobbing. Instead I picked up a pair of scissors, and underneath the table, I dug the metal blade into my arm. I liked this feeling. It was much more pleasurable, much more fulfilling, than scratching or burning myself. I didn't realize how bad it was until I saw blood was dripping onto the tiled floor in a puddle. I was paralyzed, I couldn't move. Then, thinking quickly, I tore out a piece of paper from my sketchpad and cleaned up the mess I had made.
***********
I liked cutting my arms up. It felt good, it felt right, it felt natural. I had to wear long sleeves, but so what? It was worth it. No one would ever find out, right?
Kristi. You tried to help me when you caught a glimpse of my wrist in eighth grade. I sat in the counselor's office with you, crying, because I knew my secret was discovered, and now I would have to call my mom and confess to her. Kristi, I was so angry at you. I didn't talk to you for a while, but then I wanted you around. Life was so gloomy without my closest friend.
But the cutting didn't stop. I stopped caring who saw my arms and I started to cut deeper, using razorblades all over my whole body. Along with that, I continued burning myself, only this time up and down my arms and legs. By the time I turned 20, I had gotten stitches too many times to count, and my arms were covered in scars.
Soon I hit rock bottom. But that is for another time.
As a kid I knew Mom would ask about it, so I had to wear sweaters for weeks. Still, I kept doing it. I learned to scratch underneath my clothes, especially on my vagina. Because I felt like maybe if I bled enough down there, I would feel pure again.
Then came seventh grade. Josh taught me to put out a cigarette on my flesh, and I loved the rush it gave me. Rows of burns began to show up on my stomach. Nobody would ever look there, I thought, figuring I never wanted to have sex anyway.
Then came Josh's suicide. I sat in seventh grade art class, trying to hold back tears, trying to keep myself from falling apart. Nobody talked about, or even mentioned, Josh. It was almost as if nobody cared. It was as if nobody even knew who he was.
That had to be the day Alicia and Eddie sat across from me in art. I tried to sketch Josh's face. He was so clear in my mind, that long, dirty blonde hair, the defined jawline. The intense blue eyes.
When I was done I sat back to admire my work.
"What is that supposed to be?" Alicia asked me.
I told her.
"It looks like a two year old drew that," she remarked. Eddie snorted.
I know that doesn't sound like much, but it sent me over the edge. I wanted to run out of the room and fall to my knees, sobbing. Instead I picked up a pair of scissors, and underneath the table, I dug the metal blade into my arm. I liked this feeling. It was much more pleasurable, much more fulfilling, than scratching or burning myself. I didn't realize how bad it was until I saw blood was dripping onto the tiled floor in a puddle. I was paralyzed, I couldn't move. Then, thinking quickly, I tore out a piece of paper from my sketchpad and cleaned up the mess I had made.
***********
I liked cutting my arms up. It felt good, it felt right, it felt natural. I had to wear long sleeves, but so what? It was worth it. No one would ever find out, right?
Kristi. You tried to help me when you caught a glimpse of my wrist in eighth grade. I sat in the counselor's office with you, crying, because I knew my secret was discovered, and now I would have to call my mom and confess to her. Kristi, I was so angry at you. I didn't talk to you for a while, but then I wanted you around. Life was so gloomy without my closest friend.
But the cutting didn't stop. I stopped caring who saw my arms and I started to cut deeper, using razorblades all over my whole body. Along with that, I continued burning myself, only this time up and down my arms and legs. By the time I turned 20, I had gotten stitches too many times to count, and my arms were covered in scars.
Soon I hit rock bottom. But that is for another time.