time heals all wounds.

when i was sixteen there was a period of time where i was constantly ill with tonsilitis. it got to the point where i was getting it every second week or so and was always on antibiotics. finally, my doctor advised that i get my tonsils removed.

i recall this period of time well as not long beforehand my cutting addiction began. back then the flesh on both my inner arms was smooth and clean, the way it is supposed to be. now when i look down, my right arm is still intact, but my left arm has been pretty hacked up. these days i am able to control the urge to cut, occassionally i slip up, but for the most part i've found other ways to release my emotions and make myself feel better. i have mixed feelings about the scars that remain. part of me hates what they represent, part of me is paranoid of others passing judgement...but a rather big part of me seeks comfort in them. i recall making each incision and how i was feeling at the time like it was yesterday. i remember the cool razor blade i hid in my top drawer slicing through my flesh, and of course, the bloody aftermath. once the deed was done i'd apply antiseptic and haphazardly bandage myself up, pull down my sleeve and carry on with my day. i never intended on killing myself through cutting and it was never an attempt to gain attention, for me the pain was simply a release. i would become so angry and depressed that i wanted to physically feel something stronger to block out the other negative emotions.

you're probably wondering what this has to do with my episodes of tonsilitis..i managed to keep the cutting secret for quite a while until i was on the operating table about to get my tonsils removed. it was time for the aneathesist to put me under, in my hospital gown my arms were evidently on show. i was silently praying for the woman to inject my right, clean arm, but instead she flipped over my left arm which was covered in wounds at the time- old ones, new ones and healing ones. i remember feeling overwhelmed with embarrassment. while injecting me she struck up a conversation.."they're some nasty cuts you have there, how did you get those?" she probed. as the anasthetic started circulating through my blood stream, i tried to rack my brain for a half believable response but was beginning to feel hazy. "..my cat scratched me" i replied. "that must be some large cat you have.." not having a clue what to say and realising i must have sounded like a complete dick, i simply responded with "yeah". when i returned home every knife, pair of scissors and sharp object had been hidden by my parents and i was forced to start getting therapy.

i've held off posting about this topic for quite some time as i realise self-harm is a touchy subject. the stigma and often innacurate connotations surrounding cutting still gets to me- when people make emo jokes and the like i can't help but see red and think what the fuck would they know. cutting was a very personal, private thing for me. i guess unless you've been a cutter yourself, it's difficult for a lot of people to understand why anyone would inflict such behaviour upon themselves.