It was 1996, my first year in highschool. It was a Sunday, I was alone in my room, and for some reason I wondered what it would feel like to cut myself. I knew some kids have done this and that it was an issue for the adults. I started wondering If I could actually manage to do something like this to myself. To cause myself intentional pain and withstand it.
I don’t remember being depressed or overly anxious at that time. No one broke up with me. I didn’t have a fight with my parents. I wasn’t contemplating suicide. I liked my new nerd-filled special highschool much more than my earlier middle school where I did feel bullied for being smart and outspoken. I was in no way a healthy teenager – I was deeply sad and dissociated. But not anymore than usual. So in that moment, as unsatisfying as it may sound, I think I was just curious. I wanted to see if my mind could control my body in this way.
I had the tools. When I was younger I made plastic models and dioramas, and had many cutting and piercing implements in my modeling kit. I’ve cut myself by mistake while working with scalpels before, and knew that the cuts, while painful, would heal without a mark. So I chose the scalpel with a larger handle and a curved blade. The plan was to cut, not poke myself. I then disinfected the scalpel with first a lighter and then some alcohol. I wanted this to be safe.
After some deliberation I chose the top of my left wrist, two inches up from the hand, as the staging area for my experiment. I did not want to cut my hand or fingers, as then the cut would bother me while it healed. And I did not want to be anywhere near the veins at the back of my wrist – that would be creepy. The top of the wrist was a fairly useless area where a cut could heal without being disturbed, and could easily be covered up with clothing.
Sitting down at my desk, scalpel in my right hand, I stared at the top of my left wrist. Looking carefully at the skin, noting the little hairs and the follicle cells. I imagined what the cut would look like. An angry red line of broken skin, droplets of blood, the swell and the extra whiteness of the skin around the cut. I felt a bit queasy.
I’ve got many cuts from playing outside, from hobbies, or cutting food. But these were mistakes. I never sought them out.
I touched the edge of the scalpel to the skin. I could feel the pressing of the blade and it’s coldness. I could feel my body wanting to freeze my hand, to stop this. To cause myself to bleed, it seemed so wrong in a primal way. But my mind was in charge. This was the challenge, and I did not want to back down. I was here to hurt myself and to see how I handled the pain.
I held my breath and moved the blade over my skin. Nothing happened. It slid on top of the hairs without cutting the skin. I had to apply more pressure. I felt nauseous. My body was feeling rigid and weird, cold sweat pooling on my back.
I needed a new approach. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and looked down at my wrist again. I remember that something switched in that moment. My left hand did not seem like a part of me anymore. My right hand, the one holding the scalpel was still me, it was alive and active. But the left hand was now a material, something that I was going to be working on. Like a piece of balsa wood or styrofoam to be carved and shaped for a project. And I just had to make one cut.
I held my breath, pressed the blade deeper into my skin, and moved the scalpel. I felt the pain this time, saw the red line appear after the blade, but forced my hand to hold steady. I now had a half an inch cut at the top of my wrist. Staring at the small droplet of blood, I felt a flush of relief. I did it. I could do this. The pain was not that bad. The build up was worse.
I wanted to try again, now being more clear on the process. I wanted to see if I could hold out for a longer cut. Pressing the curved edge a small distance away from the first cut, I moved the scalpel again. Another red line appeared on my skin, but I did it slower this time, feeling the pain but going for the full inch.
Another rush of relief. I was in control of my body. My mind was in charge, not my animal self. I could overcome my instincts. My fears. My freezing. The larger cut ached, but I strangely I felt good. Proud, calm, confident. My mind was clear and focused. I felt like laughing.
I reached for the scalpel again to try a third cut. I didn’t have a plan on how this cut would be different. I just wanted to do it. To feel the pain and the self boost control again. I did another cut, and then another immediately. A double dose of pain and relief. I could see why there were kids doing this. It was a rush. I felt high and giddy. I wasn’t analyzing anything anymore, the experience has taken over.
I don’t have any memory of what happened next. I was awake, still doing something, but “I” wasn’t witnessing it. At some point my internal recording restarted and “I” was back on the scene. There were some bloody tissues on my desk. I felt pain. Looking down at my left wrist I saw that it was covered in cuts. Maybe 15 in total.
More pain. Turning my head I saw that my right forearm was also covered in a series of cuts. Even more pain on my legs. I looked down. My pants were off, and above each knee there was a crisscross of cuts on each leg. There were maybe 70+ cuts in total on my arms and legs. And I had no memory of doing any of this.
I was scared. What just happened? Why did I just continue cutting myself? Why didn’t I stop? I looked again at the cuts on my arms and legs. How am I going to hide this? How will I explain this to my parents and my school? I didn’t want to get branded as some weird suicidal kid. To have to talk to a counselor. To lose my tools.
I needed some damage control. I snuck out of my room to the bathroom and got the med kit. I covered the cuts with iodine and then some plaster bandages. It hurt, but I was annoyed at myself, so I felt I deserved it. I needed a reason for my injuries. So after some deliberation I crashed a large wooden shelf in my room. Then called out to my parents that everything was ok. After a few minutes’ wait I came out to inform my parents that I got some cuts on my legs and arms while trying to catch the falling shelf, but have already bandaged them up. My dad was watching TV, my mom was busy with my sister, so I did not get many questions but established an alibi for my bandages.
The next day in school I wore long sleeves and pants. But during gym period, where I had to wear shorts, I again repeated the story of the falling shelf that slid down between my arms and legs. I thought the story was ridiculous, that my bandage placement was too weird and symmetrical, but no one seemed to question it. After a week the cuts started to fade, the cut areas just looked like some scrapes, and I stopped wearing bandages and long sleeves.
It was weird for me that I got away with it so easily. Parents, teachers, coaches, other kids – no one noticed or said anything. If I was suicidal, and the cuts were in more dangerous places – would anyone in my life pick up on it at all? Seemingly not. Everyone was too busy with their own things. I felt relieved, but also a bit invisible.
. . .
The next weekend – I was faced with a choice. I have found a cheap thrilling high, and I got away with it. Those “edgy” kids were on to something. With just a sharp tool and some pain tolerance I could clear my head, get a high, re-establish control over my body and emotions. I felt the desire to do it again, more safely, more discreetly, on my own terms.
But even as a teenager I was clear that this was a dark path. It was too close to the void. The scalpel cuts would not be enough eventually. And I could not control where this would take me. I got a glimpse of how powerful and addictive this experience could be. Of how when seeing greater control one could also lose it. And that was enough for me. I never intentionally cut myself again.
Probably for the same reason I never got any piercings or tattoos. Or did extreme sports. The overcoming of fear, the forcing of the body, the flood of relief, the glow of self-power and control. It all seemed too similar to that cutting experience in my room. I wanted to get high, to feel joy, to feel clear and powerful. But I saw that this was not the way.
. . .
I know this is a weird story. Do happy, well-adjusted teenagers have memories like this? Or are tempted to try things like this? I don’t know. I wasn’t one. I was deeply depressed and dissociated through most of my teens. Like others, I was looking for a way to escape, to numb my emotions, to stop thinking or feeling what I could not process and get away from.
This story – in a way – is a happy memory for me. I stumbled into something powerful and addictive, stood on the edge, and then stepped back. It’s a memory of me choosing self-preservation. Of choosing life, even if it was bleak at times.
It also came at the right time. Through my highschool and college years, I had other explorations that took me close to the edge of addiction. But the memory of that cutting experience stayed with me. Of losing control, while chasing a high. It was a sort of inoculation, that has kept me from out of other dangerous addictions.
It was a dark experience. But it was a blessing. And for that I am grateful.