TriciaS
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Registered: 08-2003
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Ok this thing hates me...the start of the story is on sept.12 these are MY COMMENTS...on word i had it all dect out with color so you could tell when i switched from her telling her story and her journal entries...I chose the upside down smilie cause it was cool
Sept. 12th
I just got back from therapy. Oh joy. To be honest the lesson was ok; we stayed away from the one thing I didn’t want to talk about, which was why I became a cutter. I am glad you said we would build up to that. I wasn’t ready for people to know I cut, and I’m not ready to talk about it with people.
I told you I wanted to write when I got out of college. Then you told me I could write my story, as my first novel. You then said that I should make it a six-week thing; write my story in a journal for homework, 200 words a week, along with my comments on how I think the class is going.
The day was cold and wet, like most days during the beginning of fall that’s how the weather was in Washington. I had been in Washington for about a year; I didn’t care too much for it, not like I wanted to move.
That day had been a tough one, I had way too much homework, no high school student should have that much, Algebra, English, Writing, Biology, and second year French. Of course I ignored it all and went right to the computer to chat online, with my friends back east. I missed them and I had no friends here and no one cared for me. I expressed myself in ways they didn’t understand.
I was looking for things online that day, just different poems and such. I wanted to write about something different, something fun yet scary. That’s when I came across poems written by Cutters, the people who self injure themselves. The poems were really good, the type of poem I wanted to write.
While doing some reading on the types of things they did, some slit their wrist, while others slammed their hands in heavy doors, and so on. I wanted to try something to see what it was like, I had to, and I needed to, just for my writing. I chose the easiest one, slitting my wrist.
I slowly walked into the kitchen to find the right type of knife, one not too sharp one, not too dull. This process can take a while, if you don’t know what you are looking for. I chose a knife, that I thought would work and sat back down at the computer within a matter of seconds. I ignored the computer and began to stare at my wrist.
Using my right hand I slowly brought the blade to my left wrist. Soon the icy metal touched my tender skin, and then I began to move it back and forth till I felt some pain.
The pain was unbearable, but I went on till I saw some blood. A deep red liquid slowly seeped up. I felt the chair being pushed back; my legs and arms were doing all of the thinking. I got up to get a tissue, and I whipped the blood away. It was something that I had to do again soon…
Sept. 19th
Group therapy went ok, I guess. I could tell you’re a bit upset that, I’m not really talking about my past experiences. I am just not ready, to let go and move on, or talk. You don’t understand, the others in the class don’t understand, I am alone. You want to know the truth? I could stop if I WANTED to, but I WANT to keep cutting and I am going to continue to cut. It’s not bad; I am not harming anyone around me. So why not? Past cutters say, “It’s an addiction, just like smoking, drugs, and drinking.” NO, it’s not. I CAN stop, you just have to want it and I don’t. My past experiences are my future ones to.
… As much as I WANTED to keep the knife in my room, I knew I couldn’t, my mother might look in there. She had the habit of thinking my room was her property, and looked through it when she pleased. My mother also thought she could control me, though I knew different. Instead of attempting to hide it in my room, I went back to the kitchen, cleaned the knife off, and unwillingly put it back in the proper drawer.
I sat back down, by the computer and began writing. The writing came naturally to me, though it was never any good. Word by word my poem came together.
From One to the Next
From day to day,
I find myself playing with knives
feeling alone and desperate,
not understanding, I’m lost in this world.
I just want to go away.
Time going so fast it’s blurry,
the blood rushing down my wrist,
making everything central its location.
All the pain,
all the weight from my life,
goes away when that sharp knife,
hits the tender skin.
This is where I gain control.
There is nowhere to hide, say, or turn.
People notice, that scares me so,
I need to leave this life and begin a new one that is controlled.
When I go all I ask is this,
please leave me alone, and there will be no pain.
Sept. 25th
I cannot BELIEVE what happened in class today. What is your problem? You had NO RIGHT to ask to see my wrist in front of everyone. Little MISS KNOW IT ALL, thinking I was still cutting my wrist, just because I wasn’t talking. That’s not ground, there was no proof. So of course you found out my little secrete, that I was still cutting. You are so lucky that I write when I get mad. So I am going to finish this week’s assignment.
Cutting and writing about it became a habit. I stuck to my wrist for the most part, which was ok because it was time for winter and I wore long sleeves anyway. People at school began to notice me though. I soon had friends, and I was getting cooler. Not something I really wanted.
I had really advanced in cutting two months later, around Christmas. I wanted more and more blood. I had to go deeper and endure more pain. Finals were right around the corner though, and that meant a lot more pressure than what I wanted. I barely had time to do anything. I remember staying up late trying to study, or write poems, but nothing would come out. I always had time to cut though, I made time.
With time though, I took the knife to my room, and made sure I hid it in my sock drawer, sometimes under my pillow. I got lazy and forgot to put the cover on the knife too, and sometimes forgot to clean it.
My mother never did notice, if anything it was my uncle who noticed. Though, he kept his mouth shut about it. During Christmas dinner, we were both left alone in the same room, and he somehow spotted on of my marks. As I look back it went something like this:
“Erin, what’s that on your arm?” he asked. I was in utter shock that I was so lazy that I forgot to cover it up.
“Oh, that little mark? Its from the cat,”
The suspicion on his face told me he didn’t believe me, but he went on like he did. I wanted to scream it out that I intentionally hurt myself by slicing open my wrist day after day. I couldn’t though; I didn’t think the family would love me.
Oct. 4
I think I am going to write one last thing to my story, and that’s going to be all of it. I am sick of writing about it, and I don’t think I want people to know the whole story. So this is it. I’m done with it, and with life, sorry to disappoint you.
After that I became more careful about it. I had to; the fear of people knowing scared me. It wasn’t for the attention, I didn’t need the attention. I had to cut to control everything; well that’s why I started at least.
When school started again, I couldn’t think, eat, or sleep without the feeling I was being watched; it was like they all knew. I had to stop myself from thinking that, I was being paranoid. Yet I continued, and I still don’t know why. Cutting was taking over my life; I couldn’t even control that anymore.
That was when I had to tell someone, someone I knew I could confide in. I went to the one person who already suspected, my uncle. That day is one of those days that people never forget.
I dialed the seven digits to reach him, 5-3-2-6-4-8-6. The phone rang four times before he answered. “Hello?” he said.
“Hey, its me” came out of my mouth, the voice wasn’t my normal tone, it was very shaken and very hard to understand. Yet, somehow he knew who it was.
“What’s wrong?” he asked with an uncertain tone. “Is your mom ok?”
“Yeah, she’s fine. I just wanted to ask for your help.”
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