~Cutting it out

I feel slightly present... enough to attempt this. It's rare, but it happens.

ok... here goes...

The first time I cut myself, I was about 10 years old. I used my step-father's penknife. I told my mother I'd scraped it on the corner of the bed frame. Why did I cut? Why did I cut my face? Well... I wanted to be G.I. Joe. G.I. Joe had a cut on his face.

It just sort of went from there... the cutting. I used to cut crosses into my palms a lot. I'm sure there's a lot I can tell about the psychology behind that, but I'm also sure that I don't feel like typing it all out.

If nothing else, cutting was all about proving my masculinity. There was punching things too, which I did, often, but slices were even tougher looking than a fucked up hand... and besides, I was a musician.

My identification as a "psycho" was just a by-product of the cuts. I was fine with psycho, at least people were less apt to describe me as "feminine".

As the years wore on, I found that cutting provided me with many things. It is a rather effective attention getter... and does help in the "unique" arena. Too, it was an effective way to transfer pain... to create physical pain to mirror the emotional or invisible pains.

The worst it ever got was in '94. From neck to ankles, I was a slashed up mess. I went into the hospital.

I knew that there was something wrong with my brain. I kept telling people that. I told people "I HURT". No one really questioned why. They were content calling me a psycho. All getting the DID label did for me was alleviate some of the responsibility from me. I didn't cut myself. No, that was one of the "cutters" in my system. Right. Whatever.

So, I dissociated. When I was in the "there's something wrong with my brain! I hurt!" place, I played the "stop your bitching, or I'll really give you something to bitch about" game. Invariably, I always did give myself something... and I kept doing so. I went from cutting and beating up walls to whipping myself with chains, and burning myself, more pain... more pain. Problem was that it never really worked. I still hurt. No matter how much self injury, how much therapy, or how many meds.... it didn't work.

I don't cut as much as I used to. I certainly don't need it to prove my masculinity anymore. I have tattoos to make my religious points. Now it's just about transference. It's the "You think that hurts?! How about this?!" game. ...or, sometimes, it's punishment. I play abusive parent to myself... and the rules are pretty twisted.

I don't remember the last time I cut. I know that when I got to Montana, I did... a couple of times. Since being in Massachusetts, I think I did once or twice. Knowing that I have MS... that helps. At least now I know that there really IS something wrong with my brain... and I know that I really don't need to cut... all I have to do is flash my MRI in order for people to believe me that I'm hurting.

Multiple Sclerosis... that means "many scars". I have many scars. Inside, and out. Visible and not. I suppose life hasn't been too kind to me.

...but I'm a Cutter. I'm THE Cutter. I'll not pretend to be someone I'm not, nor would I even want to be in a place where I have to hide from my past. I may have slashed myself to ribbons over the years, but I'm still here to talk about it. Cutting obviously worked for me.

One day, I'll have covered everything that can possibly hurt me, and nothing will scare me anymore. Did I mention that I suffer from paranoia? If I simply hurt myself, then I don't have to fear anyone else hurting me any worse. Right? I'm a cutter. You can't hurt me any worse than I can hurt myself... than I have hurt myself.

Someone could kill me, I suppose, but then... well, I'm working on that.

In the end, I want to be able to honestly say, "I fear nothing."

Nothing. Perhaps I fear that most of all.
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I feel myself starting to slip now... the spiral. I wrote the above a few hours ago... now, I'm starting... falling. I figured I'd post it. I don't know how far down this spiral goes.