The First Cut

EXTREMELY graphic/triggering material below!!

I don't remember the date; I don't even remember if there was a specific event that provoked me.

Something was wrong: I was numb when I had become accustomed to feeling anger and pain. It was unsettling, rather than a relief. Maybe I thought that since I wasn't feeling anything, I had to inflict pain to feel "normal" again. I don't know.

For some reason, I always relive this scene in the third person. As I type, there is a comfortable, unfeeling void between me and the me of the past. We are eons away emotionally.

She takes a nail file and rubs it against the delicate skin of her left wrist. The first layer of skin quickly disappears, revealing new, pink, baby skin underneath. She forces the file against her wrist a little harder, and the first drops of blood emerge.

She sees the blood, but she feels no pain. A dim gleam of satisfaction is beginning to grow deep in her stomach, though. It rises, as she takes the point of the file and jabs it into her flesh. She feels exhilarated like she hasn't in months. She is as free as the blood dripping into the white faux-marble sink. She is in control. She can let out her own blood.

Ten minutes later, she cries confused tears.

The next night, she goes at her skin with a razor blade.

She's hooked.

I have a collection of scars on my left wrist. They are the only proof that she and I are one and the same.