Top Wolf Fact of today: You will be happy once again.
I cut religiously for three years.
Why? I’m not too sure… Some people enjoy the process of taking care of themselves after the action, however my first aid was so shoddy. If I decided to cover the wound, I’d use some analogue of scotch tape, or even just regular tape. It was an easy method to staunch the profuse bleeding and forget about it. The cuts I’d make wouldn’t stop bleeding for a few hours, so for a while all my clothes were blood-stained and I’d catch a metallic blood smell on myself (ew). Honestly, I never even cleaned my wounds or cared about sanitisation. Although my injuries quite often penetrated the dermis of my skin, I’d never close them up or even apply Savacol. They’d always be in secret places like my shoulder or thigh.
Guys, It was really, really bad. It was all I could think about, as this ritual that seemed to run alongside the progression of my mental illness.
Two of my other friends did it too, and were vocal about it. It became this pathological thing for me to check their wrists visually, to see if they had any new marks. I wanted to see if they were as bad as I. I don’t condone this sentiment in any way, but seeing how ‘superficial’ their wounds were gave me a sense of validation. I felt like I was the ‘sickest’. It was so stupid, I fixated on this one little thing as being indicative of mental illness despite literally being ill across the board. I couldn’t see a bigger picture, and at that point, only cutting mattered.
One time, I sat in my bathroom and put on that one Slowdive album with the black cover, and cut. Oh. My. God. I can’t ever listen to those songs again because they remind me of this deep sadness. I remember losing myself and becoming this empty shell.
So it went on and on, and the severity and frequency compounded. I am covered in hundreds of scars now. The worst ones are on my thigh, because they cover the entirety of the anterior aspect. As such, I don’t wear shorts, although I’ve become much more comfortable showing it at home.
There’s some funny irony to this. Back then, I always fought for validation regarding the severity of my condition. But now, I don’t like to show people my scars as it validates how bad I was. It tells a story that I can’t control, written on my skin.
My parents didn’t like it at all, so… I feel like they pulled away from it. My mother checked me, and would get angry at me if she found anything. Parents, don’t do this. For one, you wouldn’t get angry at someone with an infection for having a fever, so why punish a symptom of mental illness? Secondly, your kids will just get better at hiding it, as I did.
I don’t talk about this stuff with anyone now, and I hide the scars from everyone I know. With time, the scars have gotten a little better, but I know that they’ll probably never go away. I am fine with this reality, but I feel like I’m not ready to feel the tension of appearing in public with shorts and a singlet on. I’m good for now.
My wolves, I have recovered. At one point, I thought that once I got into university, all I would do is buy blades to hurt myself. That is not the case. Please, if you find yourself in a similar situation, remember the wolf fact I told you at the start of this entry. You will be happy once again. And this doesn’t mean all of your sickness was for nothing, because what you feel right now is very real and scary.
What prompted me to stop cutting? Well, one day I realised that I did not want to be the person that I was, and I could be so much more. I didn’t want to be a cutter anymore, I didn’t want to be defined by this illness. I quit cold turkey one day and never counted the ‘clean’ days, it was simply over.
End.
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