The Kindest Cut of All
I know what you’re thinking. This subj has already been
address by Young Benny. This fact is undoubtedly true. But I watched the
film “Secretary” last week and it got me thinking about it again. You may
not have heard of “Secretary” but I bet you’ve seen the DVD cover. Woman
in tight skirt bending over? Yes, that’s the one. It’s an interesting film
and one with much to say about submissive empowerment (which must be a
proper expression by now as it’s 2004 and everything is a registered
trademark). But that comes at the end of the movie. At the beginning we
have a girl called Lee who has spent a time in a psychiatric establishment
after she sliced her arm open with a kitchen knife. What was supposed to
be a small wound accidentally became a big one. Lee comes out of the happy
tablet establishment (© PG Wodehouse) supposedly cured but still carrying
around a small bag which contains her self injury kit.
I genuinely don’t remember why I started. It was around the summer of 1997
shortly after leaving university. I only know this because I remember
doing it while watching Summerslam 97 on Sky Sports. That would be August
so it was some time before then. I have no memory of the first time. I
don’t remember picking up my faux Swiss army knife and swiping it across
my arm. You’d think I would. You’d think there would’ve been some kind of
trigger event. Well if there was, I don’t know what it was. I was aware
that the thing existed. One had seen bits of documentaries about it on the
telly so it must be real. But there was no blazing row, no attempt to
slash my wrists, no pre-planning and no stiff one to build up courage.
I just found myself in a routine. You see, this is what most people don’t
understand. It can become a routine. In my case it was a nightly routine
for months. It wasn’t related to superficial mood in any way that I can
remember. There were no days off when I was feeling happy. I’d wait for
everyone to go to bed, get my knife and germolene and, for want of a
better word, slice away. I won’t lie and say I didn’t like the sight of my
own blood. I’ve never been good with medical blood – anything from AIDS
lectures to Casualty can send me fainting to the floor – but my own blood
and blood in an “entertainment” context is fine. Seeing the skin crack and
the blood seeping out was perversely soothing. The lack of time for the
skin to heel meant it became easier and easier to juice a gusher (as
someone once said).
The lack of an overall plan gives itself away when I remind you that this
was going on in the Summer and into Autumn. Not the best time to arms that
need hiding. Being a terribly middle class and uptight family though,
nothing was said. Jumpers which had traces of blood on the insides of the
sleeves were washed and returned. I know they had their suspicions but
it’s not something many people are equipped to deal with. They wanted a
nice and rational explanation. Or at least for it to stop. I haven’t yet
said much (if anything) about pain. Does it hurt? Of course it hurts.
Imagine a paper cut – that hurts and that’s only paper. Pain – like love –
is a single word with a spectrum of meanings. There are many different
pains ranging from the pleasurable to the emotional to the unceasing. The
cut hurts a bit. Not a lot though. It’s sore for a while but again it’s no
big. The pain isn’t the reason for it – if I were a masochist I could do a
lot more with less complications – it’s just a by-product of it.
So what is the reason for it? Well, if I knew that I would be writing a
book about it rather than doing it. Perhaps the answer lies in the books
of Paddington Bear. Paddington – you may recall – was in a spot of bother
in the bath. He called for assistance but, being a terribly well brought
up bear, he shouted quietly so as not to disturb anyone. The hidden cry
for help may well be at the heart of the matter. Did I hate myself? Of
course I do. And punishing myself for being myself is a nice, neat
hypothesis. Or possibly, as I once speculated somewhere online, that in a
situation where you feel powerless, the only power you do have is to take
matters into your own hands. Literally. I can’t strike out at the world so
I’ll strike inwardly instead and blame the world. Look what you made me
do. Another neat little theory.
So why mention this now? It’s ten months since I last indulged and I
haven’t come too close since. There was one incident a few months before
the above and before that it had been a couple of years. I can be sure of
that because of the changing knives. My old faux SAK had broken into lots
of small and oddly shaped bits. November 2002’s dose was delivered with a
second faux SAK. A fiver from Woolies because I didn’t want to carry my
genuine knife around with me. The real knife – bought primarily because
those things are so damn useful and this one doubly so because it has a
multi head magnetic screwdriver for tinkering with the insides of
computers – has only been used once and its scars still stand out amongst
the hundreds. Quality will tell in the end. Anyway, it’s been a while now.
That’s not to say it’s over. I’m tempted now to be honest. But I probably
won’t. Not because I think it’s a bad thing to do – I once debated the
harmful effects of it vs smoking with someone terribly dear who smokes and
who I miss greatly – but because it is a commitment. A commitment to
seeing the cuts several times a day, to wince when you have to turn the
car wheel sharply and to make sure you don’t accidentally let anyone see
the after effects. It’s a memento of something that I’d rather move away
from if I can. Stop wearing a headfuck as a badge of honour. Because it
just ends up defining who you are rather than you defining what it is. And
what it isn’t.
To conclude – for I must stop rambling before I end up back at the
beginning and realise I’ve travelled the entire circumference of the globe
simply because I turned left instead of right – I would draw a parallel
with drugs. There are those who take mind expanding drugs and know that
there could be harmful side effects but who find the self discovery that
results is worth more than the harm they suffer. I think prolonged self
injuring is basically the same thing. It is introspection but to the
extreme. If you feel nothing then all you’ve suffered are a few cuts. If
you regret it, if you look at your torn skin and believe that you
shouldn’t have done it then maybe you’re on the way to liking yourself.
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