I want to cut. I want to cut so bad. I want to not just see but feel the blood drip down my arm. I want it to sting when I move my arm or lick off the blood. I want to see the blood ooze out and try to guess how deep the cut is. I want it to be deeper than normal. But then there's what I don't want. I don't want people to stare, to ask me what is wrong or to tell me to get help. I don't want to wear more clothing as summer is already promising to be too hot.
JK came over the other night. He has scars and isn't afraid to show them. My roommate has known about his suicidal thoughts for weeks. That's fine; they're his thoughts, he can do what he wants with them. But this weekend somehow the three of us started talking about my cuts and how much he likes to bite them. He's caused some bruising over the cuts. I don't like that my roommate stares now. I don't like the fact that she thinks about them. It means there's confirmation that she knows about them. She admitted that she cuts but I've never seen anything. And even if I had, we don't have that kind of relationship. Every girl I know has just told me to get over it, that I've made everything up or I'm taking it too seriously. I'm not comfortable with whatever she's thinking.
I don't like that my mom saw the scar that I keep recutting in Nick's memory.
I don't like that a customer once started talking about the "scratches" I have on my arm.
I don't like that my teacher asked me if "everything was ok" and then told me to get help.
I like my scars; I like my cuts. I just don't want anyone to see them. Ever. I miss the ones that have disappeared due to time or being covered by other scars. Maybe if I cut enough it'll all be scars and therefore indistinguishable from normal skin. Maybe. But then people wouldn't stare. They wouldn't try to rationalize away their fears by saying shit like "Cutters actually only cut in one isolated area many times really quickly. You were obviously telling the truth when you said you keep falling on wires in lab although I don't ever remember you being such a klutz." My cuts are private. They are mine, like my diary. They remind me of things that have hurt, that have molded my character. They show my internal battle of dealing with all that's attacked me in life. They are not a book for the general public to read and then comment on. I don't want people to judge me. I don't want them to think I'm weak, or that I'm selfish. I don't want them to think they need to walk on egg shells around me or that I need to be coddled or thrown into a corner until I'm miraculously happy again. I want to reveal my memories, my cuts and scars in the privacy of my own room. I want to revel in my past alone–no one else could fully understand anyway. I'm tired of people pretending that cutting is a horrific and rare thing. It's not nearly as horrific as what led us to cut. Believe me.
Just… World, let me cut and promise me that none of you will ever acknowledge that you see them. Let me live that lie. It's one of the nicer ones I live.