Letter v. 1.0 in The Past

A little while ago, I found a kickstarter that hit me right in the heart. You Are Loved. As a part of this kickstarter, I got the chance to write a letter to add to the book. The letter’s supposed to be a page or so long and should be something you want to tell others who may be down. It’s due the day after tomorrow.

My letter so far, is 3 pages long, and I’m stumped. I know I’ll have to whittle it down to one page, but I want to put what I have so far down here. I’m at the point where I’m getting ready to address the reader, and I don’t know what I want to say. It’s like I have the vaguest of ideas, but nothing that really feels “right” to me. I want to say, “I’ve told you my story, and here’s why…” but I don’t know the “why”.

::frowns a little::

I’ll share what I have so far though.

Feel free to comment and critique.

Dear Reader,

I started cutting when I was 15. It was never about suicide, never about the desire to die, but about control, and the ability to feel things. I was in an awful place; I felt like an imposter in my own body. When I was around my friends, I’d play “let’s pretend” and put my “everything’s all right” face on. But when I was at home, it was harder. What I didn’t know then is that my father was suffering from PTSD and was self-medicating with alcohol, pot, and eventually, meth. All I knew is that my father was going crazy and was taking me with him. We would fight and scream and yell and sometimes he’d hit me. Sometimes instead of attacking me, he tried to attack my sister or my brother for some imagined wrong that they did. I took their beatings too. When he realized that using his fists and the belt wasn’t breaking me, that I’d stand up to him no matter how bad it got, he decided to break my will another way.

He started to court my sister and brother’s good will, started buying them things, anything they wanted, and when he didn’t have the money for their wants and his own needs, he started telling them it was my fault. I didn’t want them to have any money, because I wanted it all for myself. I was being selfish and hated them, because I went out and babysat and wouldn’t give the money to him. Everything that was going on in the house, all the misfortunes that we, as a family had, was laid squarely on my shoulders.

I began to crack. I couldn’t feel anything any longer but the pain of alienation and a sense of all consuming anger. I was angry at everyone, at everything. I couldn’t take it out on my father, because that wasn’t done, so it built up inside of me until I began to choke on it. That’s when I took up the razor. Dad worked as a OR tech when he was military, and he had brought home a lot of stuff from those days. Apparently razorblades had an expiration date, and it didn’t matter that they were still in their single packs, sterile and ready to be used, if the date passed, they were tossed. He would bring home the perfectly fine, yet out of date items that he thought he’d have a use for. The razors were my favorite.

The first time I cut, I relished the pain, relished the fact that it was I who inflicted the pain, that I could control it, decide where and when it would happen. It was the first control over my life that I found in ages. I also fell in love with the blood, the way that it would slowly bead up out of the surgical cuts, the rich, vibrant color. I never knew it was so red. I had always imagined it to be black, an ichor that was tainting every part of me, I didn’t know it was so beautiful.

I used my right calf as my canvas, making slash marks that held very little pain when they were created, and which would throb for nights afterwards, comforting me. I didn’t want to die, didn’t want to do anything that couldn’t be undone, and I figured my leg was easy to cover. I didn’t wear skirts, so I didn’t have to worry about anyone finding out. It worked. For a while.

Then, one day by chance, my mother and sister saw my canvas. I guess I had wanted them to know, in some part of me, because that’s the only way I can imagine them finding out. Mom cried and wailed and made a big to-do about it. My sister got angry, yelled at me for being so stupid, so weak, and threw away any razors that she found. I had more hidden, but she didn’t know about those. Their reactions, the largeness of them scared me. I was 16 by this point, blanketed with a nice layer of apathy. I had spent over a year living in a world where emotions were pastel in color and carried no weight, the vibrancy of their anger, fear, and worry scared me. It made me want to cut more.

I’ d promise them that I’d never do it again, that it was a one time, or two time thing and that I was sorry. I’d be ashamed of myself, ashamed that I was weak enough to need an out like this, ashamed that I got caught, and swear by all that was holy that I would put away the blades. And I would, for a week or two.

Then something would happen. I’d have a bad day at school and come home and dad would be drunk again. And I’d feel the need building up, the desire to see the blood again, to feel the control. I would start dreaming of it. I called these dreams the “red dreams” because that would be the only color in them, the red of the blood. And eventually I’d break down and pull out my blades. The first cut always felt like coming home. It was a relief, a soothing wave that crested and washed over my mind. I’d watch the blood as it trickled down my skin and find a sense of peace for the first time since the last time I completed this ritual.

And always after, there was the guilt and shame. I was weak. I was hurting my mother and my sister, who only wanted what was best for me. I was a horrible person, a weak person. I should just cut a vein and get it over with. These thoughts would plague me for hours afterwards, and they’d help start the build up again. After a while, every problem, every stressor brought the dreams and the whole world seemed to be washed in red. I didn’t know what to do – my very escape became a prison.

Enter Jen.

Jen was one of the most beautiful girls I had ever met. She had long, thick brown hair that fell past her waist when she let it out of its braid, and beautiful brown eyes. She was small, but not delicate, and had a disposition that would make anyone smile. She had this light around her, this innocence that I would have killed to protect. In a word, she was “Good.” She was also a good friend of mine, one of those that we could go months without taking and then just fall in together like we had seen each other the day before. When I thought that I couldn’t take the stress and pain anymore of dealing with everyday life, she invited me to come to her house and spend the night.

We spent hours talking and watching anime, discussing what anime we liked, what we didn’t, and how the two leading men on the screen should just snog and get it over with (We were watching Pet Shop of Horrors that night.) When it came time for bed, we changed into our pajamas. My pajama bottoms were way too short for me, they were bought a year or so earlier, and were too small and threadbare. Jen noticed my cuts and without asking, she pulled up my pants leg.

I was mortified. I was already cringing inside. I knew what would happen next: She would put on theatrics, telling me about how what I was doing was bad and wrong. She would cry and scream and yell and make me promise never to do it again, which of course, I would do, and hate myself for it every time that I would break the promise. I pulled in on myself, staring into her face, waiting for the explosion to happen.
It never did.

She took a long time to look at my healed scars and my scabbed up recent cuts. All she said was, “Shibby design.”

It was in that moment, that instant of acceptance and shared knowledge that I felt the little piece of me that had withered away to nearly nothing take root and grow. She may not have seen me at my darkest, or my worst, but she had seen my private shame, my private joy and salvation and had not flinched away. She didn’t judge me, didn’t think less of me. She still loved me, even though I was flawed. That knowledge blew me away, gave me the strength to start looking outwards again, to start looking forwards. That night, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t dream in red.

Last updated December 24, 2016