Oopsie!

liar, user, cheater,

crumb bum, jerk…

people say those words to me

but somehow my mind won’t

accept them when it comes to him.

somehow i still believe there was a

reasonable reasoning for how this played out…

sometimes, though, the words get loud

and scream in my head —

LIAR!  USER!  JERK!

LYING LIE-FACE!

EVIL!  TWISTED! CRUEL!

they scream and they won’t stop, so

i take some meds

which can be a good thing except

on a night like tonight when my mind is

soooo ativan-addlepated that,

before i even knew what i was doing,

my left wrist was bleeding from three or four cuts,

along with a slash on my left thigh.

 oopsie!

nothing too drastic, i mean,

i am a weenie, you know…it aches though.

i put on some polysporin and a bandage…

hopefully the marks will fade before i go

to school again monday…

you know, cutting is stupid.

i still don’t get why i would do it…

any ideas?

Advertisements

Why Do I Cut?

I was asked this question recently and I’ve been trying, all day, to formulate an answer.  I don’t really have one.  And I suppose I don’t really consider myself a “cutter’ – much as someone who drinks every day might not  consider themselves an  alcoholic?  I don’t know. I think I am much more of a psychological cutter wannabe than an actual mutilator.  I want to do it, but am so aware of the consequences that my cuts have not been overly dramatic…well, not too bad, anyway.

I’ve known cutters.  My sister used to cut.  Several of my female students used to cut a few years ago – one to the point of being committed to a psychiatric hospital for a bit.  I had a male student several years ago who mutilated himself with fish hooks…I’ve only known a couple of males who cut, though.   In my experience, cutting is the province of girls and women, much like poison.  Why is that, I wonder?

For many years I have understood, on an intellectual level, the need/desire to cut.  It tends to happen when people feel they have no control over events in their life – especially pain-evoking events – and cutting is a pain which can be totally controlled by them.  Additionally, the physical release of blood represents the release of pain; of letting the pain out. 

Despite an academic understanding coupled with a natural sympathy and empathy for the pain the cutter must be suffering, never could I understand actually cutting.  That just seemed like the most ridiculous thing one could do…And my first episode was almost, I don’t know, accidental, if you will.

I broke a picture frame.  The glass was everywhere.  The picture itself was still perfectly intact and it pissed me off so I picked up a large shard of glass and scraped our faces out of the picture…cutting my arm was only a second thought.  The next few times…I don’t know.  I never go very far with it, have been careful, even in the midst of the act itself, not to do too much damage. I mean, I do have to go to school and face my students – and my son.  How could I explain to them why it is okay for me to do it but not okay for them…

I don’t do it often.  Really I don’t.  The desire, however, is constant.  And I really don’t know why.  So, George, I don’t really have an answer.  I tried, though.

Migraines Suck

The migraine meds must be getting to me           

I was cutting out pictures –

For my scrapbook, the one

I always joked would be sitting in my lap

When I am older than dirt

And you finally come to see me again –

I was using my best, my sharpest scissors

When my hand began to shake

I dropped the pictures and gripped the handle

Til the knuckles on my right hand

Turned white – my hand shaking all the while.

My hand floated up in the air, the blade

Of the scissors pointing down,

Poised for destruction.

I watched in morbid fascination

As the pointed end made its way, I thought,

Towards the pictures now sitting in my lap.

Ah…but the pictures were not the target

My pale porcelain wrist was.

It occurred to me that I should either

Move my wrist or change the direction of the scissors

But I did neither, and the tip pierced my skin

I felt nothing, really, beyond annoyance

That the scissors hadn’t gone deeper…

So I scratched the tip against my wrist

Over and over and over.

That was dumb.

Hmmm…guess I should go bandage it up.