Cutting 514

The title of this post is taken from cutting (a form of self-harm), My age (51) and 4 to indicate the number of cuts. The photo is after a night’s sleep and healing.

Most of the info and advice about cutting on the Internet is aimed at teens. I find that slightly disappointing, though I guess it just means that I really am young at heart.

I met a woman in the psych ward a few years back (have I ever mentioned the fact that I was once committed?) We got along well. I seem to get along SO much better with people who aren’t “normal” in society’s terms. I’ve long since given up the pretense of being normal. Normal is average. Normal is mediocre. Normal is boring. Most of My friends are those unafraid to let their “weird flag” fly high.

Anyhow, I thought that I understood a little bit about the motivation behind cutting: that people who cut themselves were just wanting to feel something, to feel anything, and that was the only (or the best) way that they knew.

It’s really not like that at all for Me. Like, at all.

When I cut Myself, it’s because I want the pain on the outside to be more than the pain on the inside, so that the pain on the inside doesn’t seem so bad.

What often works for Me is taking long walks, walking away from everybody and everything and just being by Myself. I did that last night, but because I’m not really that used to walking any more, I only made it half a mile or so.

I did run into a cat. Looked like a stray, something like the one I left behind at My old apartment complex. I had stopped to rest and this cat just came straight toward Me from across the yard, rubbing up against Me and allowing herself to be petted. Kind of took My mind off of Myself for a few minutes. She started to follow Me home but I guess thought better of it and wandered off to do her own thing.

I got home, everybody was drinking again, so I just went back into the room I rent. Yeah, I know, I pay half the fucking bills but I still feel like THIS is the only part of the trailer that’s even a little bit “Mine.” Plus kitchen privileges, after fighting My way past the kids’ toys that are strewn all over this week, and digging through all the stuff they drag home from the food bank weekly (at least We won’t starve), and finding the pans and kitchen tools that seem to be relocated every 48 hours, and … *deep breath* but no, I love it here, really.

That’s when I heard The Knife whispering in the back part of My skull.

And so I took it out. I looked at it carefully. I pressed the tip against My abdomen, wondering just how hard I’d need to push, whilst realizing that a straight abdominal wound was unlikely to kill Me. Besides, I am reluctant to do anything like that while there are children here. I’d like to be as non-responsible for their mental fuckery as possible.

I was still hurting though, way down in the depths of that inky black thing called My soul. So instead of suicide I figured that cutting was the next best thing. As I said, I was trying to make the outside pain overshadow the inside pain.

It worked. For a time. For now. The Knife is still within arms’ reach however.