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drawing a picture with a twist
please, please, please, just a single word, a prayer, a pleading thought. i didn’t want to die,
i just wanted to feel okay again. in the little pink box, the one with the pearls on the lid, in
the green cabinet, resided a single object, nothing out of the ordinary, but something which
would later rule my life. my best friend, my greatest enemy. i was eleven years old the first
time i held a razorblade to my wrist. i didn’t do anything that night, but it was the start of
a long journey for me.
i had never heard the term “self-injury”. i didn’t know what a cutter was. we didn’t have
internet, i didn’t watch much tv, and i was oblivious to the existence of this beast outside of
my own mind, in the separate reality i had created for myself, the one thing i had left to
survive and escape. for over a year, i had no idea that i was not the only person who hurt
themselves. it started slowly. first i pulled my hair out, then i started scratching with a
paperclip. i finally moved to scissors, and then glass.i didn’t do it every night. i did it
when i needed to feel better. i did it when i didn’t know what else to do.
i was informed that we would be moving to arkansas in september of 2001. i was devastated, and
just angry. my mom meets a guy on the internet, and now she wants to uproot us and everything
we’ve made here to live in arkansas? upon hearing this news, i came to the extremely naive
conclusion that i had no reason to live. i did not want to leave my family, i could not stand my
mother’s new boy toy, and i was just depressed. i set out to do it like i’d read in a book. i
was going to hang myself. eleven years old, and i was ready to leave without a doubt.
telling my parents i was going out to play with mariesha one night, a common occurrence, i
walked between the church and the alley, across the road, and behind the house with the
statues. i continued in this direction until i came to the old building with the shed, and this
is where i stole my rope. it wasn’t the greatest, but it was the best i could do. light was now
fading, and my heart was racing. i refused to be rational. you’re going to die tonight,
jerrika, and that is the end of it. i turned in the other direction, behind the yellow house,
and now to the section of land with the trees. this is where i was going to end my life. i tied
up the rope as best i could, sitting on a limb with shaking hands. with a deep breath, i
slipped the rope around my neck, said please forgive me, and jumped.
the rope snapped in less than ten seconds.
what had i done? all i could do was cry. a little girl sitting underneath a tree, a rope in her
hands and tears on her face. my knees and hands were scraped up from the fall, and all i could
do was cry in my anger. i had just wanted to die, was it so much to ask? i decided there was
some reason i was supposed to stay on this earth, at least for awhile longer, so i composed
myself and started on the walk home. no one said anything when i came in.
after the move, things went back to the way they were. i scratched with my fingernails and dug
into my skin with paperclips. things were at a standstill for about a year and a half, through
the remainder of 6th grade and all through my 7th grade year. i didn’t get better, but i didn’t
get worse. in 8th grade, at thirteen, things changed. after a rather emotional fight with my
group of friends, and reading what one of them had written (the subject being abandonment), i
simply set down my journal, walked into the bathroom, picked up a razor and made a single
smooth cut across my left forearm. i watched as i bled into the sink. i was extremely calm, and
i felt a huge relief afterward. i cleaned the razor, and walked back to my room, completely
unaware that i’d set off a chain of events that would ultimately make my life a living
hell.
razor blades were my new favorite toys. i went through them quickly, the sharper they were, the
better. i was an expert at taking the blades out of disposable razors without cutting my
fingers. i unscrewed the blades from pencil sharpeners. i stole boxes of razor blades from
stores when i got desperate. i was creative, but i was dangerous. eventually, i joined pro-si
forums and websites for the tips. i wanted to cut deeper, more. i memorized charts so i could
cut without hitting major veins. i learned where to cut when i wanted to see a lot of blood
without causing significant damage. i figured out the exact angle to cut the deepest. i learned
tricks for making curved letters. it became an obsession. cutting had taken over my life.
eventually, the pain wasn’t enough. i wanted more. i felt the need to punish myself. i started
burning myself along with the cutting. i used lighters, but my favorite method was salt and
ice. you can still see a burn on my arm from one of my bad nights. i kept cutting more and
more, it became an every day thing. i couldn’t go without cutting. i was addicted, nothing
could stop me. eventually, it started to get out of hand. twice, i passed out from blood loss.
one night i remember particularly well. i was going through a regular cutting session, my left
leg the victim this night. i was using a new method i’d read about, and it was working
particularly well. i plunged into a random spot, and dug deep. tears came to my eyes and when i
looked down, my eyes widened with fear. my skin was split apart about an inch and i was
spurting blood. i held a towel tight around my leg and hoped it would stop. i pulled the towel
away, i was getting dizzy. in a panic, i grabbed a thing of superglue i had in my room. i wiped
away a layer of blood, and then pinched my skin together. i superglued the skin together and
held it while it dried. when it dried well enough for me to get up, i snuck quietly to my mom’s
storage, and took out a needle and thread. i tiptoed back to my room, closed the door behind
me, and set to work. i glued the cut one more time, and then i made 5 careful stitches in my
leg. i returned everything and when i came to sit, staring at a razorblade on the floor, a
blood stained towel on the bed next to me, and my leg throbbing in pain, it was too much to
handle. everything got hazy and then i blacked out. i woke up a few minutes later on my
floor.
i attempted suicide twice more. once by swallowing handfuls of random pills. i ended up getting
scared and forcing myself to throw up. the other was an extremely unsuccessful attempt at
bleeding to death. finally, i reached the point that i knew i was either going to die or suffer
terribly for many years. i needed help. i went to a teacher whom i trusted very much. that’s
another story.
i started my recovery process, stopping cutting for indefinite periods at a time. my first
attempt lasted a measly 11 days. i progressed and hit 2 months without cutting, and then my
next attempt lasted 4 days. after i got out of the hospital, i went 6 months before i finally
gave in. it was around this time that i’d started talking to someone who is now a huge part of
my life, and it was because of his influence that i decided i wanted to stop for good. it was
also because of him that i cut for my final time on August 17, 2004 with the words “i’m not
good enough”. i knew it would not be easy, and it hasn’t been, but it’s worth every second. i
never want to be back where i was. i’m determined to never injure myself purposely in anyway. i
do have a few fallouts here and there, i still have a few problem handling myself with drugs
and drinking, but for me, i can put up with that for now, as long as it means no more cutting.
So here’s to 16 months, 2 weeks, and 4 days.
I’m done with you.
© Jerrika, 5 January 2006
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