~The First Cut Is The Deepest~

The first time I cut myself for pleasure, I was in 9th grade. I didn't know why I was doing it except that it felt good. It was a high like nothing I'd felt before. It was the worst pain and the best but it was my pain. One I could control unlike the rest of the misery I felt in my soul.

It was a Saturday night and like always, Mom was at work doing over time she wasn't paid to do and Dad was in bed. I honestly don't remember where my sister was. I imagine in bed or out at a friend's house. My brother was in prison. It was his first stint there for breaking and entering and wouldn't be his last. I was lonely. Like always, the feeling of need and desperation was like a hole in my heart. I couldn't fill it with anything but attention and what I knew well~Pain...

I remember going to the kitchen. It was dark except for the light on the stove.  I quietly went through the drawers and the knife block to find a knife that no one would miss. When I found it I slipped it into my pocket and made my way back to my bedroom. My parent's bedroom was straight across and sort of next to mine all at once with the bathroom in the middle. The door as always was shut and the loud din of the television was the only proof that anyone might be in there.  I remember the show "The Golden Girls" was ending and the show "Empty Nest" had just begun. I only remember that because it was my usual Saturday night activity but tonight it didn't interest me at all.  I had no lock on my door so I sat against it  in case anyone tried to come in. I knew better than that though because no one ever bothered with me unless they needed me to do more than my normal chores or if my sister wanted something or to visit.

I didn't know what my plan was or why I felt such a deep urge to do it, but I knew in those moments I ached to pierce my skin. The black handled knife was short and thin. There were a few nicks taken out of the blade. I examined the knife with a kind of awe. This was the only way in, I thought. The only thing I could use that would help me to find some peace, if only for a few moments.

It was by accident that I knew this. I had been slicing a tomato when I slipped and cut my finger. The acidity of the tomatoes burned brightly and I instinctively went to put it under water while putting pressure on it to stop the pain when I suddenly felt a sense of calm come over me. The blood dripped into the sink and I thought, if mental pain was a liquid, then I could simply drain it from my body.

The memory of that day warmed my chest as I turned my hand over and placed my palm on my leg.  I sat with my knees to my chest on the cool wooden floor using my own body as a lock to the outside world. Very slowly I ran the length of the knife down the back of my hand. Oh wow, I thought as the bright red blood appeared in a crooked line down my hand. Blood dripped slowly off my hand onto my pants. I closed my eyes and let out a sigh of relief like I hadn't felt in so many years.

I wanted to keep bleeding but the cut was not deep nor long enough to persuade it. Taking the knife in my right hand I cut again. This time I was less shy and gave it a good push into my flesh. Now the red came quicker and much less in a row than in a gush. I will never forget the contradiction I felt as my skin seared with pain as  my heart felt a sense of peace.

I sat on the floor for what felt like a long time. As the blood clotted and dried, so did the high I felt. I heard my parents bedroom door open and close and my father's bare feet pound the linoleum as he went on his search for ice cream, I was sure. The door to his bedroom and the noise of his T.V. opened again. I heard the laughing and other noises of "Saturday Night Live". The door closed. Finally all went quiet again.  Wow, hours had passed since I cut myself...I had sat there on the cold, dusty floor in a kind of stupor and no one noticed I was "gone". Suddenly I  felt alone again and aching ....For what though, I wasn't sure.

I picked up the telephone and dialed the number of a teacher who I had in class the year before. Why not, I thought. She had accepted gifts from me, let me in on a free time period to help her out and sometimes to talk. She was the closest thing I had to a friend, I thought.  My hands were shaking as I dialed the number. I heard her voice say hello.   This was the voice of the one person who become a kind of  parent to me in the past year. I knew if anyone would care or understand it would be her. I finally found my nerve and my voice "I cut myself" was all I said. The phone on her end went silent for a few beats. She told me that she would call me back. No questions, no nothing. Just that. I waited in shear anticipation for the phone to ring. I knew I needed to answer it quickly or else my father would in his usual angry way.

About 10 minutes later I heard someone knocking on the front door. I couldn't move. Was it my teacher? No, it couldn't be. It had to be my Mother who must have misplaced her key. I heard what sounded like my father arguing back with another man. The door shut and all went silent again. Then I felt my door bounce off and push into my back as Dad tried to shove it open.

"Stacy!! Open this door!!!" Surprised by my father's angry voice I jumped to my feet , shoved my hand into my pocket and kicked the knife to the wall behind the door. My dad stood in the dark hallway. Even in just the light of the stove I could make out the anger etched into his facial features.

"What's going on Dad? Who was at the door? Is Mom home?" I could not look at his face. I had only seen that angry look when my brother did something wrong...Broke into a neighbors house or stole a bag of candy bars from the corner store...."Is everything okay?"

"What the hell did you do? Calling your teacher and telling her you cut yourself? Then the f*cking police come here and I have to deal with those a**holes again?   I had to deal with this SH*T with your brother and now YOU??? What is wrong with you?!"  I could tell his last question was not asked out of concern but anger as he stamped off in an utter huff into the direction of his room and slammed the door shut.

That night I realized I was more alone than ever. I knew my teacher was NOT going to call back. The call to the police station was the only phone call she could emotionally afford. Plus, it was her job to let the right people know. I didn't know that then but would be told later. Not only had she shown no concern for me, I felt,  but my own father was more embarrassed and irate to be visited by the police department of our small town than he was worried for me. Had he been worried at all? I didn't notice.

I am not sure what time my Mom came home from work that night. I waited for her but finally gave up around 2 am. The next morning she at least showed more worry for me than Dad did but it too was stifled by anger. I could just imagine how the news of what I had done had been replayed to her. I'd heard his version of "concern" for many years. If ever I fell and got hurt Dad would yell instead of asking me if I was okay. Mom was always trying to keep us quiet and spent her allotment of patience on keeping him happy. It never occurred to me until I was in my own abusive marriage that Mom did NOT have an easy job.She was stuck in her own abuse.

I would go on to cut myself numerous times over the next few years. I moved up from cutting the back of my hands and would slice my arms, my legs and, at times, my wrists. I almost always wore long sleeved shirts and would constantly pull the cuffs down over my hands without even realizing I was doing it. I didn't want anyone else to see the proof of my loneliness and heartbreak. I shared my secret with only a few and they were almost always female teachers or doctors that I thought I could trust. I spent those years feeling like I was only good to fold laundry and to clean. I wasn't a good student school and my writing, while it was given some compliment by teachers, was not recognized.  I found it therapeutic as time went on. Most of my classmates thought I was crazy because I did some odd things, for sure. I know now why I did them.

I also realize why I cut but at 14 there was no one talking about depression and self harm was almost unheard of... It was shameful for me just as my being molested was. It was my fault that I was causing my parents trouble. Any adult who learned about my "affliction" chalked it up to my wanting attention or trying to kill myself. They were partly right...Yes, I did want attention. I needed it like I needed air sometimes. But the reason for that is another part of my life story that I will tell another time.

The last time I cut was at 16. I had gone through my house collecting every medicine I could find along with several knives. I was so tired of feeling alone and hurt and so sick of being "weird" to my classmates. Imagine trying to keep my cutting secret from everyone? It came out often. All I had to do was not pay attention to my shirt sleeves or tell one friend about my issue and many would learn my "secret". I think the worst part of that is the fact that no one seemed to care.One day at school I trusted that same teacher~ I told her that I still felt like cutting to spite having a therapist. She called a meeting, invited my parents in. I remember dad didn't show up~as usual~ and Mom only said that she was quite embarrassed to find out "this way" from my teacher than from me. Funny, I thought I had gone out of my way to "tell" her. Maybe not in words though, since words didn't work anymore, but in many, many other ways.

I think more than embarrassment, the reason I kept my cutting secret was a dual reason~~ The fear that no one would give a sh*t. But the worst thing was the overwhelming guilt I felt for not being perfect for my parents. They had so much to deal with concerning my older brother. How could I give them anything but the best grades, the cleanest house and the happiest me? 

That night it had all built up....My cutting, my depression, the fact that I didn't have anyone I could talk to that wouldn't either take it personally (mom and dad) or use it against me. The feeling of being alone was so great, it was like a hole that I could no longer fit into my soul that overflowed into my everything. In the middle of the floor surrounded by knives, medications and the very depression that led me there, I called out to my Mother. When she came to my room I only told her 3 words, "I need help". That night I signed myself into a psychiatric hospital for teenagers. I never cut again. Not because I didn't or don't want to but because I never EVER want to return to that hospital. That is a whole OTHER story worth telling, but not tonight.

I hope that what I went through can somehow help someone else to know that they are not alone. It does get better but not on its own and NOT by cutting. On the other hand,  if by reading this you think you've found something to try out, please, I beg you, don't cut. There are other ways to feel better. You have to want to make changes and find other outlets for those very real emotions. The first cut, like the first anything, is always the "best".  Yet if you can keep yourself from making that first cut or can reach out after it, you will find help. I've helped paved the way for you...I've bled a lot of my heart out to find relief and I promise you, its not there on the end of a knife or cigarette, or whatever you might use to harm yourself. I've shared this story so that you don't have to. Now just please, use your words to ask for help. Please. People do care. Sometimes we just need to remind them that we are not doing as well as we make it seem like we are.

Stacy J Roosa
12:27 A.M.