My left arm is riddled with scars. My 13 year old self decided that she was going to kick start this skin mosaic by carving the name of the boy she was "seeing" into her arm. Henley was his last name. Why did I chose his last name? I don't know.
Anyway that was the beginning of a long, 13 year affair with the blade and the end result is a tapestry of pain and pleasure.
I had many reasons why I cut - sometimes it was for attention. Most of the time it was to relieve some bigger emotional pain I was too immature or too scared to face.
And sometimes it was just to prove that I was indeed a living, bleeding, breathing human being and not a "kick me all over" barbie.
I was the master of cutting and hiding. Sometimes I would just slice here and there lightly for a "fix". I just needed to see red.
Sometimes when the pain was way too much to overcome I would cut deep and erratically.
Most of the time I needed the pain to survive. Not the pain of cutting because have you actually cut yourself with a razor? Did it really hurt all that bad? No, not really huh?
My red, swollen and raw arm that rubbed against my sleeve was enough pain to get me through the day. As it healed the emotional pain seeped in so I would cut over the healing cuts and start the pain all over again. Sometimes I would cut every few days for months.
Today I have been self harm-free for 14 years. Soon, I will write a poem that I will have tattooed onto my scarred arm along with some cool art, of course.
Tomorrow I will explain more to you about where I have been and what I have been going through. I owe you at least that.