Scars and Stories

I've been meaning to write about this for awhile, to say the least, and I've been wondering where to begin. So today, while cleaning out my closet of all these bags, I came across some balled up paper stapled together, and I recognize it as my seventh grade handwriting. On it is a song, titled "Red", that I wrote back when I was cutting (which would be what this post is about). Before I go further, here's the song:

Ever since the day we broke up,
I've been thinking this way,
Wondering whether I wanted it to be
My last day.
I know I'd be fucking up my life,
But should it be done with Mom's knife?

Many thoughts have been running through my head,
Like whether or not I should be dead.
"Cut" I've said to myself a thousand times.
So I'm sitting here in my bed,
Watching my right wrist run red.
Whoa-oh-oh

The color red stands for many things,
But for me it's broken hearts and
Broken dreams
(But right now it's the blood staining my sheets)
I know that I'm fucking up my life,
And it's worse I'm using Mom's knife.

Many thoughts are running through my head,
Like whether or not I should be dead.
"Cut" I've said to myself a thousand times.
So now I just sit here in my bed,
Watching my right wrist run red
(Somebody save me...)

You don't know about the pain that
Runs down my cheeks.
"You have no clue about how I feel,"
I scream.
I told you it would come down to this,
And now you better regret all the blood
You've cost me.
Please, I don't wanna do this (to you)
Please, I don't want to lose (you and me)
Oh, please, just save me (from the pain)

Red is...blood
Red is...blood (no wait)
Red is...love

All those thoughts were running through my head,
Like whether or not I should be dead.
"Cut" I had said to myself a thousand times.
Now I'm laying here in your bed,
Thinking 'bout the times my wrist ran red.
(You saved me)
Whoa-oh-oh


Looking back, it's hysterically funny. I was a clingy, emotional, paranoid wreck that couldn't stand up for herself. I let guys walk all over me, I never cried at anything, and I was writing terrible (and badly written) fan fiction about Patrick Stump from Fall Out Boy; all the while I was staying up late at night, often until one in the morning, reading young adult love stories and jotting down creepy love things about how I wished Jimmy and I were (which I recently dug up out of a couple boxes of random papers).

So yes, back to cutting. While I only cut on my thighs (except for once across my wrist from a director of my youth theater yelling at the entire cast of High School Musical for not being ready) I have quite a few scars from what I've done to myself. I remember when my first boyfriend Davis and I broke up, and it tore me apart. Not to mention Between The Tree's song "The Way She Feels" had just made it big in the music industry and TWLOHA (To Write Love On Her Arms) was dotting my wardrobe. I was lost in myself, and I didn't want to let myself feel anything at all, but everything was getting to a point where I had to feel something. And with everything that was in my reach, I turned to cutting. For everything. Bad day with friends or my mom, pulled out my razor. My boyfriend of the time (Jimmy in the beginning) wouldn't call me on the weekend, pulled out the razor. Hell, sometimes I just cut because I felt like it. Cutting took over my life practically, and while Jimmy and somewhat convinced me to stop in November of 2007, we broke up and that caused seven scars to be imprinted on both thighs. The guidance counselor was informed, because I had begun cutting at school too, and called my mother, who became very emotional and upset. I stopped until January of 2008 when I cut once, but my mom caught me and after threatening me with a mental hospital for "suicidal activity" I was scared out of cutting.

I didn't cut again until October of that year, when I opened up to Graham about how I was dating Jimmy when I asked him out at TIP and cutting. It pulled every one of my experiences with cutting to the forefront of my mind, and I started again, which confused and infuriated Graham. He didn't realize what was so addicting about slicing your skin until he tried himself that December, which was another time I had cut. Skip to spring of 2009, and I was cutting heavy again like seventh grade. Graham and I weren't in the best of places, and we were fighting all the time for about two months. Even though the fights were over practically nothing, the aftermath was stressful and I cut to cope with it all. Graham and I established a final promise not to cut, and I didn't attempt again until August of the same year, trying to carve my daughter's name into my thight; no scar resulted that I can easily find. In January of this year, when I told Graham about the December affair with Jimmy, I felt as though he wasn't treating my harshly enough, and in all of my guilt I took it all out on myself quite a few times. And let me tell you, there is nothing like that rush after a long break of not receiving it. Graham did get me to stop, and I believe the last time I cut was in February, when Graham broke up with me for what felt like no apparent reason.

There really is no positive effect to cutting. It hurts everyone around you, not to mention it is slightly painful, and it gives the cutter poor coping skills and false emotions. Cutting took my ability to feel away, because I felt like I couldn't express myself and I had to keep everything locked up inside, and cutting released all that. The psychologist my mom took me to figured out that my "root" was my dad not giving me the attention I needed and instead directing it towards my stepmother and her children. In turn, this caused me to have a dependence on guys for long term, close relationships and I would fall apart whenever they left my life.

As of this moment, I don't really know my point of view on cutting. I have quite a few friends that either have cut or currently still battle it. I know it is an addiction, and I even think of it as luscious, and a beautiful sting. With words like that, I feel like I want to cut again, no matter what anyone says. Honestly, I kind of miss that rush and the secret of hiding it. I guess I won't know what I really want until after recital, considering fresh, crimson cuts and flesh tights and revealing costumes don't mix, and neither does bathing suit season. I don't know. I don't want to hurt people around me, but I can't help craving the razor against my skin.

Nobody worry, please. This does happen often, and not cutting is a daily battle that I've been winning for a few months and I had won for nine months before. I'm sure this is just one of those phases that all us addicts go through. After all, what is the difference between a cutting addiction and one of drugs, sex and porn, or alcohol?

Before I go, sixteenth birthday shoutout to Jimmy. We were the same age for a day and now we resume your oldness. Happy birthday, darlin'.

Love,
Caitlyn