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Self-Injury
Self-Injury. Cutting. The issue has been Velcro to my brain as of recent. Actually, it may seem
only as of recent, just like I’m always recently sad. Truth is, it’s always on the brain.
I seriously doubt I’ll ever cut again. It’s been quite a while since I did perform that act,
and to be quite frank, it’s a moronic and lackluster means of self-destruction anyway. Please
take note that I am not calling cutters or former cutters morons. The smartest of people can
misplace their logic and do some foolish things from time to time.
I’ve tried to write an essay on SI, but I haven’t worked on it for weeks (come to think of it,
I haven’t done any creative writing in weeks. This is a writer’s block in which all lanes are
coned off). I’ve found several problems with this essay while writing it. The first being that
I just have far too much to pour out, and my hands can only work so fast. It’s quite
frustrating when the brain wants to ejaculate an ocean of words onto the page all at once, but
the pen can only lick the paper in one spot at any given time. The second problem I faced is
that SI is still quite a mystery to me. I’m not really sure why I engaged in sex with the SI
monster all those times, and therefore, I’m not sure it would be appropriate to write about
what I can’t understand. Earthlings cannot accurately depict how Martian society functions,
that simple.
However, I will periodically post excerpts from this failed and abandoned attempt of mine to
delve deep into the soul of the act of delving deep into the soul. Because these are only rough
drafts and similar themes could not be grouped together, the idea’s very scrambled up. I can’t
say I’m posting these title-less chapters in any specific order of logic, except chronologically
from when I wrote them. I do however know that the following paragraph is undoubtedly the
beginning of the essay. The rest is in the air.
To say that cutting myself was like a drug would be equivalent to categorizing the black plague
as a minor mediaeval nuisance. In fact, blood, and its accompanying endorphin rush still stands
as the only major chemical addiction I have had to face in my lifetime (eating disorders not
being counted on the basis of not being a chemical fixation).
I’ve done drugs. I’ve done many drugs. Alcohol, marihuana, methamphetamine, tranquilizers, pain
killers (hahaha!), ecstasy, crack cocaine, etc… yet I have never been betrothed to a drug
(well, perhaps tobacco) which I couldn’t stand to be without. I can honestly say, without the
thinnest shred of denial, that to me drugs have always been subservient to me and my demands.
They are water ice on a July afternoon, something that I never needed to consume, but did for
no reason other than I felt like it was a nice way to pass the time. Drugs never did stand a
chance, being that in November 1997, at 14 years old, I realized that the most omnipotent drug
of all was already skulking under my own skin, waiting to be found like a child playing hide
‘n’ seek (though this turned out to be more than a simple, juvenile game). The magical sermon
to summon forth a drug which makes euphoria seem like a simple sugar cube lies in the voice
emitted from the edge of sharp steel contours.
© Derek M, 13 August 2005
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