Part 2.

I was at a concert with my friends and I lost them in the mosh pit, when i went outside to call them a guy put a knife at my throat and started dragging me back into an alley. I’ve always been terrified that something like that would happen, call it my adhd’s “impending sense of doom,” so i was armed. I fought back, broke free and as i was running away the guy slashed at my back cutting really deep. At the hospital the doctor saw my scars and asked me if i was sure I didn’t do it myself and was making a cover up story.

It made think of why I stopped in the first place. I guess I didn’t feel so lonely, I didn’t feel like such a mess, I didn’t really feel like I needed to bleed.

But getting cut brought it all back, the fear of having my life taken away by someone else, that someone else could make me bleed, and somewhere i’d never cut either, it was the only part of my body without a scar, and now there’s a huge one.

Every night after that, sometimes even during the day, I whittled away at the patch of skin above my ankle. It started out as cutting, then it turned into skinning, because that produced much more blood. Until a month later, I passed out in my room, my friend got worried when i didn’t return her calls and got someone to check on me. At which point i was taken to the hospital, given a transfusion, and diagnosed with PTSD. I came home from university, and being surrounded by friends and family made it better, safer, and the cutting stopped again.

Part 1 of my life i guess. I just wanna chronicle how i became so fucked up.

I’m normally a happy person. Well. No i’m not. I’ve always scratched at things and made them bleed for as long as I can remember. like…grade 4. By grade 8 if i didn’t have something to pick at, I’d make something. They started out as pretty pictures, not cutting mind you, I etched them into my skin. A heart with a K+J inside it…the ‘j’ was backwards. a 666 like in the omen on my ankle, a pentagram on my hand. all immature things that i thought were so cool. 

Next came words. “The End” etched into my knee, Pain on my right hip, Escape on my arm, etc.

Bu grade 10 it devolved, i’d figured out how to dismantled a razor a blade and i was pretty nifty with it, shallow cuts on my legs and wrists, Never my back, never my stomach, rarely my face. I never really cared about hiding it, but i wasn’t like LOOK AT MY CUTS EITHER.   And the summer before my second year of university I stopped. after 10 years of blood, and 6 years of cutting, I stopped. for about 4 months.