Cutting

I am looking at the inside of my left forearm. Patterns, lines, pale on flesh. I know the cause. Anyone would really. They were inflicted by my own hand. “Self-harm” is the phrase. It is such a neat, tidy phrase. To me, self-harm can be neat and tidy, and it can be dirty and messy. The beautiful slicing, starting nearest the handle, slicing away. Watching the skin opening, revealing the tissue underneath. Beautiful, beautiful tissue. I don’t know what it is about it, that makes me love seeing my skin opening up , and the tissue below coming into view. The blood pouring down my arms. It’s branching and merging, another visually hedonic experience.

Once in a thunderstorm, the blood mixed with a deluge. It proved to be a much more sensual experience than usual. I long for that feeling again. Now that we are back around in May, it is storm season again. Drinking season again. Cutting season again. I am finding it harder to resist. I am further in time from my cutting. I am closer in lust. In memory. In want. I know what I want. But you can’t always get what you want. But oh. To be sick again. How lovely that would be. When I was really sick last year, I was “allowed” cut myself. I mean people were pissed at me, and my psych tried to kick me out of hospital and shit. Now though, I’d get a kick in the arse and probably be told to find a new doc. I’m not sick enough to get away with that shit anymore. My husband might kick me out. No sympathy. I guess they think I can fight it now. I guess I can.

I hate that I can. For me. Obviously for the kids, and everyone else it is great. They have half a mom back, maybe three quarters. For me, being almost all gone was easier. I don’t remember most of being all gone. Who was she? No idea. She doesn’t remember and nor do I. Now – I just feel stuck. Not between a rock and a hard place. Between misery and bleeding from beautifully sliced skin. It must sound ridiculous to an outsider, to someone who’s never been suicidal, or wanted to self-harm, but I can’t wait to self-harm so much, that I do it again. I miss it so much. I used to do it so regularly, and I don’t do it anymore. The first time I did it was mid-May. The last time was late September- a 100°F night. I associate hot weather and storms with cutting.

I’m usually a chicken when it comes to storms. Now I wish there was a mammoth two-hour downpour so I could sit and drink in the rain for a while maybe take pills, and then slice, and watch my blood drip into the puddles at my feet. It would be mesmerizing. But there’s always an after… Would it be death? The E.D.? Galter 13? Some other shitty hospital? Inpatient medical? Who knows? Do I care? Probably. Enough not to cut? Yes. For now. And certainly for my kids. And what if it all is no longer enough? Do I have the strength to tell Gio? Will he even know how to help? Will I call Dago? Will I go to the E.D.? What will I do? I still wonder will I ever truly be out of this crazy stage of maybe-maybe not hurting myself…