I Acknowledge an Incredibly Stupid Bad Habit.

So, I have never actually told anyone, except my fiancé (who has, sadly, witnessed it first hand), about this particularly terrible habit of mine. Wait, that isn’t true – I’ve laughed it off to my mom and sister before when confronted about it, claiming it to be long in the past.

I have many bad habits. I drink too much, I’m lazy, and self-indulgent. I’m quick to anger, yet also swallow back my true feelings to avoid conflict.

But this is my worst bad habit.

I am a cutter.

That’s the first time I’ve ever written that statement. Cutter looks weird spelled out.

I have scars up and down my left arm. They’re fairly faint (except for the newer ones from a recent relapse, but maybe more on that later), and all horizontal; the purpose has never been to kill myself.

I used to cut on my upper left arm, but then I got tattooed up there so that’s a no-go anymore. I also used to cut on my thighs, but I didn’t get the same visceral pleasure as I do from seeing the cuts on my lower arm.

The absolute worst part of it is that I normally cut, at least now, when I am tee-totaled, black out drunk. So I don’t even really remember it, except a vague recall of deep satisfaction. However, my fiancé remembers it, at least the few times he’s been exposed to it. That is what I’m most sorry for – not the harm I’ve done myself, but to him. He’s done nothing to deserve that kind of mental scarring: to see someone you love purposefully hurt herself.

To know that the person you hold dearest hides the knives from you after a night of binging on vodka tonics doesn’t exactly make one proud. I feel so much regret for the sorrow I cause him, and even more knowing it will likely happen again.

I know I should get behind the reasons why I cut. It isn’t to kill myself; I like to think I’m fairly intelligent. If I wanted to kill myself, I’d make the cuts vertical and far deeper.

I think part of it is I feel I deserve the shame I feel afterwards (for weeks, while the fresh cuts heal and fade to something that can pass for older). It is akin to paying penance; I wear long sleeves, am hyperaware of my arms, and generally disappointed in myself. Do I get a sick pleasure from that? I’m not sure. I’m worried that I do.

Every few months, I start with a jolt to realize that I’ve gone so long without self harming. I feel intense pleasure and satisfaction, as though I am finally growing up. It inevitably ends in a relapse. I have yet to go longer than a year without cutting.

The scars on my arm range from very deep (one probably needed stitches; luckily, it’s on the top of my wrist and I pass it off as an urban exploration injury) to so shallow that any shadow of them is gone by the year’s end. My right arm is pristine; I do not trust the agility of my left hand to carve the paths I wish to leave in my flesh.

The last time I cut was last Wednesday night. I had gone on a spree with friends, downing drinks at a local dive bar until my fiancé got off work at 4am, arrived home to find me missing, and swooped me out of the bar. We came home, and I don’t even know what set it off. December is a hard time for me. My favorite cousin passed away when I was fifteen on December 6. I think I’m okay, but I act like this and I just don’t know. Clearly, I’m not as okay as I tell myself. Something is broken inside me, and I’m not sure I know how to fix it.

I sliced until he pried the knife away. The cuts aren’t deep – they rarely are, and when so never on purpose. The point is not to die, as I’ve said. The point is to scar. For a small pain and a larger grievance of heart, to force myself to see those lines and know I am weak and small and powerless even unto myself.

Apologies all around for the quality of writing in this post, but I’m scared if I spend too much time editing that it will end up deleted. And it’s important that this is out there, for me and maybe for someone else.

You are not alone. And we are so much more than this one, stupid bad habit.