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   He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he gaze long into the abyss... only to find his own reflection.

Confessions of a Cutter (Self-Harm)

by Cutter
I cannot this time forget.
For if I do the pain shall repeat.
Trauma teaches one to forget.

These posts, in keeping with this website's format, are copies of journal entries written over a number of years, by someone who is into "self harm", or, more to the point, someone who cuts himself with various razors and knives.

Cuts that draw blood and make scars. Sort of like "girls" who make cuts on their arms — but in Cutters' case, the cuts tend to be vicious "body hacks" all over — and on the arms too.

These posts will be... are: Raw. Hurtful. Painful. Bloody.

This is me. It should not be you. The worst thing you can do is what I have done.

Watch out. Reader discretion is advised.

Posts are, currently, in reverse order — i.e. first to last. Other options will be available sooner or later...

It was a cut a long time ago. My cheek.

I had this image in my head of it, years ago. Spirals. Spirals of images and memories and one of a cut cheek -- one of the spirals -- went and has gone from the past until now.

Or something.

I don't know.

But now, I have a thought, turning into the more I think of it was a compulsion to cut my cheek.

But underneath the thought was a reason: to remember a specific HORROR that could have been avoided if I were stronger, or smarter, or more experienced, had more WISDOM.

So the cut, this cut, is a reminder of that. This cut is WISDOM learned but not remembered. Other than the cut.

By that I mean I did forget the shit I went through -- and possibly making the mistake again...

I cannot, this time, forget.

For if I do the pain shall repeat.

Trauma teaches one to forget.

Not remembering though means repeating destructive behaviour.

I remember after having posted this, that I purposely ran an X-Acto knife two or three times across my right cheek that night. It was gruesome and awesome. I then stumbled into the ER... When they learned it was "self-inflicted", one doctor displayed his "self-contempt" of my having done so... with his declaring, "And children could find the knife!" that I said I threw away. Guilt I have enough of. Shame I live with. Doctor's can be assholes. Such is life.

The first cut was lame. It is funny that I should use that term, "lame."

I hate "machismo" crap. I do NOT cut to be "macho" in any sense of the word. Fuck No.

I cut to scar which is to remind which is to remember...

A small cut will heal quickly and not leave a scar.

The first cut would not scar; the second would not either.

But the third...

Warm blood drips down my neck and immediately I feel relief!

It is just like a drug.

Morning. That previous entry was written while pretty intoxicated. There is blood on the pages of this notebook.

That night I went out. I had scored my left breast three times, put on a white tshirt that stopped the blood, then put on a black shirt to cover it up. I remember being out, at the bar--it was good. Many young people. Some guy even tried to pick up a conversation with me--which is unusual--I figured he was gay. I talked with him for a while before--

Why am I doing this? WTF does it matter? Do you care? Am I supposed to learn from this, this writing? Yeah, I'm fucked up when I'm drunk. But I am compelled to write...

I left at last call--so many times alone in a bar just watching, just watching and wanting, and leaving alone. I don't remember the walk home as is usual, as the many consumed beers start to affect the brain.

The next morning I discovered many, many new razor cuts on my chest. Not deep, quite superficial actually--

The razor was on the table. I wrapped it up in tape and tossed it in the trash. That's part of the thing--the morning after hate. Hate of the razor. Hate of having done it.

But not hate of the scars.

I knew then as I do now, five days later, that I would caress these cuts, pick at their scabs, run my finger tips over them to soothe their itch. I rub them and can't wait until they heal and turn to scars. And I will have more to rub, to feel, to scratch, to live with as... testament to my inner hatred of my body.

I hate my body so much I love to hurt it.

(I was intoxicated, and this poured forth from me one night... and is exactly as written in my diary. Who is You here? I don't quite know exactly, though I have some guesses.)

I want to hurt you really bad!
I want to hurt you really bad!
I want to hurt you really bad!
I want to hurt you -- your body, really bad!
I want to hurt you really bad!

I don't care about anything else besides hurting you.

I just want to hurt you.
I just want to hurt you!
That's all I want to do.

I don't understand why, but I just want to hurt you.
I just want to hurt you.
I just want to hurt you.
I just want to hurt you.
I just want to hurt you.
I JUST WANT TO HURT YOU!
That's all I want to do!
That's all I want to do!

I want to hurt you and that's ALL I want to do.

All I want to do is to hurt you. All I want is to hurt you. All I want is to hurt you. All I want to do is to hurt you.
That is all I want to do...
Is to hurt you.

All I want is to hurt you.
All I want is to hurt you.

All I want is to hurt you. All I want is to hurt you. All I want is to hurt you. All I want is to hurt you. All I want is to hurt you. All I want is to hurt you. All I want is to hurt you. All I want is to hurt you. All I want is to hurt you. All I want is to hurt you. All I want is to hurt you. All I want is to hurt you. All I want is to hurt you.

All I want is to hurt you.
All I want is to hurt you.
All I want is to hurt you.

That's all I want to do -- is to hurt you really bad.
That's all I want to do! Is to hurt you Really BAD!

"Forgotten wounds can't heal."

That is something to remember, to hold, to grasp, to cut for...

I am not your typical cutter. My first cut was when I was about 19 or 20. I don't even remember the circumstance--but memory lapses are something that I've had all my life.

My first cut was on my stomach--seven/eight inches long and not deep. I do not recall doing it. I just know of the scar.

The next cut I remember more. It was punishment. A reminder to myself that I screwed up.

It is during times of despair, times of great despair, that I turn to the knife, the blade, to the razor.

There is something about the blood. The flowing of the blood that soothes.

I cut the blade. With my teeth I cut the blade of the razor... fuck I can't even type... am making so many mistakes....

I held the blade over my chest, an X I wanted to make across my breasts...

But I did not! I did not!

God, I did not!

The urge to cut is very complex and needs to be written about. People really need to understand what cutting is--and I need to understand exactly why I want to cut myself [even though I have been doing it for a long time]. It's partly the anticipation, partly the pain, but mostly it's the blood.

The flow of blood, the warm flow, like tears. The warmth, the drip, the sticky stuff on my flesh and fingers. All of it.

The sharper the quicker the deeper. A razor blade at times is most appropriate. A serrated knife causes more pain and creates a wound that lasts a long time and itches like forever.

Sometimes picking the scab part of the reason to cut.

Small razors and knifes are best. No one uses a large blade. But sometimes something bigger is needed. Steak knives are not good, but a fillet knife may be.

While I write I think of preparation. I thought of my Swiss Army Knife but worried about it's edge [not being sharp enough].

I went up stairs and got a disposable razor. Not too good as is, but modified, the edge of the blade exposed by breaking the plastic, it then is. Very good indeed. I do that now...

I accidentally cut my finger--blood flows down it--but I don't remember how it got cut. The bright red on white is compelling. I want to cut so bad... my fingers, my hand. My stomach as I had planned on originally--everywhere... Fuck!

Maybe little cuts all over instead of one big one... I don't know. I contemplate...

I just cut my stomach pretty bad. Well, just a flesh wound. It was about 5 inches long. About a tenth of an inch deep.

Oh fuck, it's deep, it's bad. Lot's of blood. But, fuck, it feels good...

Why? Why does it feel so good!

This is the worst cut I did in a long time. It's bleeding a lot. Not life threatening [they never are], but clothes threatening [joke!] as I'll have lot of blood to clean up.

It's OK. I feel OK.

My new scar is gaping open. I'm going to leave it. Shit-- But I know what I am now. And this open wound will remind me.

I hold the razor in my hand-- I imagine scoring it across my flesh-- Creating more gaping wounds on my chest.

(This is a really raw post, showing what goes on in my mind when a razor is near.)

Yeah, I've been drinking-- Yeah, I've been drinking, and I want to cut-- It's too late, I've already thought of it. I will do it.

But something is different this time. I am afraid. I am afraid of you. I am afraid of people, of everybody. And I hate that.

Is that related? I don't know. But I want to cut and see blood flow.

Fear of people, blood will flow. Fear of family, blood will flow. Don't fuck with me, blood will flow. Do you think you know pain? Blood will flow!

I am full of fear. The fear is constant. I hate myself. The hate is constant.

And I don't know why!

Who are you! Who so takes hold of me? You thing. You idea. You thought. You feeling. You whoever you are. Who are you! Why are you here, in me?

It is you I hate. You hurt me then and now--continuously you hurt me still. You are a nag. A hook. A hold. A plague. A pain deep inside my brain that will not let up.

Why?

I've thrown everything at you yet you still hang on--alcohol, drugs, razors. I crashed my car twice for you. I cut my wrists, my arms, my chest, my thighs, my neck, my face, yet still you persist.

Your goal so elusive for so long can only be to cause me to kill myself. Only then will you be happy--but I am not sure of that. Maybe I exist so you exist. Maybe you hate yourself and can only relate to causing hate in me.

I don't know. All I know is the hate that exists in the corner of my mind like a grinning mouth. And you are inside me and the only way I can hurt you is to hurt me. And I want to hurt you, really, really, badly.

Do my cuts hurt you? I hope they do. Is my shame yours? I hope it is.

It does not make sense, I know. But maybe if I cut deeper I will get you. If I become disgusting and horrible maybe you'll go away.

If I can hurt myself more than you ever hurt me maybe you will go away.

You see, I know your scars. They are old--early in my life--in a place where no one will ever see--ever, unless I show them.

And I've been cutting like that for a long time. Did you know that would happen? Do you relish in/at my cuts so like yours?

Or do I cut to re-live in some perverse way those first cuts?

The ramifications of that are to difficult to fathom and my brain shuts down.

Am I crazy?

But I did not do those first cuts to me. Someone hurt me at an early age. Before comprehension of such an act was even possible.

But the thought persists--cutting myself persists.

I am crazy.

Crazy with pain and hurt.

And I don't trust anybody.

Every human being is an enemy.

I really want to hurt myself some more. I really want to hurt myself. A razor is the easiest thing to use.

It'd be difficult to break bones. And the cutting of tendons scares me too much -- as I want pain and not disability.

I'm lying back and relaxed and calm. I run my fingers over my thin flesh and muscle over my ribs and the several scars over them. And surprisingly, I want more -- more scars. More deeper scars that cut to the bone.

I pause and ask why. Why would I want to do this to myself, cut myself so deeply--

There's just something inside that wants this to happen. Just cutting into flesh and bone. No reason beyond that. I simply wait for the courage, or the equal quality, the lack of caring of the consequences.

There is the cut of the new which is wrong.
There is the cut of the existent which is probably wrong.
There is the cut of the old which is a lesson.

I have not cut. Partly, I passed out, partly, although cutting intrigues, cutting is abhorrent.

Yes! I can finally say that! I hate cutting. I do not hate the cuts, but I do hate the cutting!

Cutting is an admission of something being wrong, admission of the acknowledgement of pain, that I hate myself so much that I want to hurt myself, which is in itself painful to admit and to acknowledge!

I like my cuts. I like my scars. That's all there is to it. I'm going to get a fillet knife.

Oh, I never mentioned that, did I? I want to get a fillet knife. I'll get a nice, sharp knife that I can stick into myself because inter

I did not cut myself. I have not cut myself for months - like almost a fucking year!

(My apartment neighbor's bed springs squeak! Squeak, squeak fucking squeak! Fuck! At least it does not last long.)

Cutting no longer is a thing for me. I am finally over it.

And I feel good to say that.

Damn! I could have so many less scars had I simply acknowledged my fear of women. (They are all so really beautiful but I was always so scared of them...)

more later...

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Writing Down the Pain
I'd like just once to fall asleep feeling good about myself. Just once. Drunken stupors do not count.