mood: pathetically stupid slash stupidly pathetic
song of the day: how did you know | chiqui pineda
current rave: wala
The Cutter
…I could feel the edge of the cold blade cutting my wrist…blood slowly emerged at that thin red line…. Then I blinked. There I was doing the same thing I swore not to do ever again.
Approximately three years ago, in high school, I had gotten the idea of cutting myself as an outlet when things got real nasty. I never really had any other things to consider as outlets for my emotional stress.
I was never one to indulge my sentiments or emotions then. My classmates would always find me with a crazy smile pasted on my face; never a frown, never a smirk. They would always say that I don’t seem to have any problems at all. There was never a moment that I unwittingly allowed anyone to get a fleeting glimpse of the storm that raged secretly inside me.
And so I continued to hide my problems, believing that if they were just there, they would disappear later. If I don’t pay attention to them problems, they would walk away.
And I thought that if I felt so much pain, I would develop some immunity to it that I wouldn’t know it existed.
But I was wrong. The days went by…weeks…months…not a thing was resolved…nothing was cleared. My mind continued to amass an incredible amount of pain and frustration. And also, I couldn’t forget that I had a scary buildup of hatred inside me. So much torture…so much suffering. And of course, I couldn’t miss the bitterness, along with the cynicism and the stoicism. And since I never talked to anyone about what I felt, I had stored these stuff all inside and there came a time I almost went ballistic. I couldn’t take it anymore. And yet I couldn’t lash out on anyone…so I turned the attention (and the blame) to myself.
So I got my cutter from the study table, examined it closely and started to cut my skin. It stung. Fresh blood appeared at the then new wound. I was momentarily shocked and I told myself it was a stupid thing to do. Then I asked myself why I did it…well, I guess, I was feeling so numb that I could no longer feel the pain. It was just a way of testing myself to see if I was still human.
Months later, I got a new explanation for cutting myself. I told myself that I got so accustomed with pain that I was already craving for it. And although I was afraid of what I was doing, I couldn’t stop it anymore. It had become a habit that I couldn’t withdraw from. It was so addictive that I did it almost on a daily basis. Once, I actually tried to cut right where the pulse is, just because I had this sudden idea of ending my life with one slash. I thought doing that would end all my misery. But it didn’t happen because a friend of mine called, right before I let that blade touch my wrist. She had felt that I would do something stupid that night so she called me up. My plan went kaput. Now, I’m thankful she did that anyway.
Anyway, so some of my close friends began noticing the scars in my wrist and eventually, they discovered that I had been cutting myself. As expected, I got sermons from them. They said I was a masochist; they said I was delighted at my own suffering. They all told me that it was wrong and dangerous. But that was not what I needed; all I needed was someone to understand what I was going through without having to hear an explanation from me. I hated telling people what was bothering me. Maybe one reason why I wasn’t keen on sharing to people what I feel is because they offer solutions before I even get to say my problem. Or maybe I just hated receiving sermons so I never told anyone about my ordeal. But they already knew, and I couldn’t do anything but just admit it all. Unwillingly, I made Pinkie Finger Pacts with some of them not to cut myself again.
And then, high school ended and it brought additional melancholy to my already full emotional storage room. My barkada split up because we were to study in different campuses. I was even more crushed to learn that my closest friend couldn’t be with me in college. And oh, I was even more devastated than that when some guy left me hanging; but that’s another story and I don’t really want to blurt out all the details of that macabre courtship.
In short, I was a loser…a loser with a life full of misery…but I tried to stop cutting myself. Yes, I indeed tried. It was hard though. The temptation was really strong…
College became the advent of new adventures…and of course, new frustrations. Nothing could absolutely really cheer me up. Okay, so I was cheery on the outside; but inside, there was still this dark and brooding side of me. I became depressed even more…and I went back to the old habit. Seeing the crimson blood seeping out of my skin was somehow a delight for me. I loved that stinging pain so much I craved for it.
And then I tried to write. I was not much of a writer but I tried to refocus all my pain into pen and paper, and sometimes, my PC. I tried to forget about cutting myself. I thought I had succeeded.
But I had felt weird yesterday again…I didn’t know exactly how I felt though. I felt so down and depressed that I wished oblivion would just swallow me. It was as if something was pushing me down so much it made me feel sick. I lost my sense of reason for a moment and I grabbed my cutter from the top of my desk.
…I could feel the edge of the cold blade cutting my wrist…blood slowly emerged at that thin red line….
A minute later, I cleaned my wound with some antiseptic. I looked at the growing number of scars on my wrist. Once more, I swore I never would cut myself again… but this time, I prayed that I would have the resolve and control to follow that I had sworn. I hoped that I would have the courage to open up. I hoped I could pour out everything without cutting myself again.
Then I wouldn’t be depressed anymore.
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i feel so depressed today. haaaay....(isang mahabang buntong-hininga)...lahat na lang ng ginagawa ko mali...haaaaaaaaay....oh wellllll....
