The Ritual

"You're not bulletproof. No one is.” My father spoke these words to me on the night we found out my grandfather had cancer and may not survive the surgery to remove the tumor. Like many emotionally trying situations I had shut down and pulled away from those around me. I couldn't even work up the courage to call my grandmother, let alone my grandfather, to offer love and support. My mind couldn't grasp that he could be gone soon. This was a man who had helped raise me, and at times was more of a father to me than my own father could be. Loss is a plague to me. Akin to the Black Death, it floods into my being, ravaging my psyche, leaving only death and destruction behind. Thus, the mere thought of losing my grandfather sent me into an emotional frenzy. My father's words played over and over in my mind. These words resonated with me on a profound level. Even so, I kept thinking to myself, why didn't my father see it? I knew I wasn’t immortal. I know it better than most actually. For I have watched the life drain from me. I've been a self-harmer, a cutter, for years. I've taken blades to my skin and watched the blood well up, red and seductive. Cutting gives me the physical release that I can't find emotionally. When I carve into my skin it’s not about wanting to die, it’s about coping. My self-harm cycle is destructive and unhealthy, but the only sufficient way I have found to deal with the hurricane of emotions inside of me. I began doing it when I was 11 and by the time I was 14, I was cutting almost every day. The cutting started small; a paper clip here and a thumbtack there started a downward spiral that only got worse with every bad choice I made and gut wrenching situation life threw at me. Eventually, the thumbtacks and paper clips were gone, replaced with broken glass and any blade I could get my hands on. For the times I couldn’t get a blade I would use my hands and tear at my flesh until I felt sane enough to function. At 21, it should be no surprise that my body has become a mosaic of scars, with designs carved into patches of flesh with care and precision. I’m still shocked that people don’t see the scars. Maybe they just pretend not to notice. But I see them every time I look at myself, felt their ache each time I moved. So why couldn’t everyone else? Thankfully, I had learned to quell the urge to cut myself, and for 2 years I had been clean. For 2 years I resisted and I coped with the pains of life. But the night I heard about my grandfather’s possible demise, I broke. Every step I made toward recovery dissolved in an instant. I knew the signs, the symptoms of the desire to cut and they started to wash over me. It starts with an itching sensation; like my skin is covered in mosquito bites and no amount of scratching will give me relief. Then the shakes begin. My hand quakes and soon my entire body cannot be still. The pain and the release of slicing into my flesh is addicting. With every cut I watch my essence seep out of me. I imagine, and believe that the pain leaks out with every drop of blood. The problem is that meek, shallow cuts no longer suffice. I have to cut harder, deeper to feel the same sensation of release. Eventually it feels like my skin is on too tight and I will do anything to get out of it. I can't sit still, pacing the small floor space that is my room. I start to scratch at my skin, praying that this will help, but the demons of loss are relentless. They want their blood payment, and only mine will suffice. The desire to cut becomes stronger with every passing moment. My breath comes faster and I know there’s no stopping this. My thoughts are consumed by the blade and the release it will provide. My mind is racing and continues to reiterate, If I do this, I’ll be ok. Everything will be ok. You can deal with this is if you just cut yourself. I find my blade. It’s never too far away from me. I carry it around like a trophy, a memento to my recovery, but now it has become my alluring, destructive friend once more. I sit in my bed and begin the ritual. The towels are ready and my blade has been cleaned with the hot fire of a lighter. My skin tingles in anticipation, like a lover waiting to be caressed. I rub the inside of left elbow gently, hoping that I can relieve the hurt and forgive myself for it afterwards. I drag the blade, slowly at first, and watch the small scratches rise up on my pale skin. Soon I press a little harder. The cuts start small, but the emotional tsunami still rages inside of me. I press harder, watching the blood rise up to the surface and drip down my arm. The pain starts to abate, but still it’s not enough. I know that the only way to stop it is to slice deeper into my flesh. I prepare to cut deeper than I ever have before. Finally, I set my resolve, press harder, and make more permanent additions to my already mutilated skin. My skin tears apart under the sharp blade. I can see the layers peeling back and the fatty tissue of my flesh exposing itself. The blood wells up faster now and the copper tang of it fills my nostrils. At last, that comforting numbness begins to descend on me and I feel that familiar peace wash over me--a deeper peace than anything in life has ever given me. It’s better than drugs or smoking or sex. It’s an ecstasy that can’t be replicated by any means. It’s a sensation that only those who have experienced it can describe, and even then, the descriptions fall short. In a moment of clarity I know that these cuts are it, they have to be. My life can no longer be consumed by these demons. It’s then I realize that I've cut so deep. The blood is running down my arm in a downpour. It stains my clothes and I attempt to soak it up with the towel I have nearby. It’s more blood than I’ve seen before and my head spins at the sight of it. I try to remain calm, but I’m suddenly afraid. The towel presses harder into my arm as I try to staunch the flow of blood. In this moment I realize these scars and cuts have infected me. They’ve filled my blood with a sickness I can't bleed out no matter how hard I try. Each cut I carve into my skin, each and every scar screaming, "You're ok. There's no need to feel anymore." But it was lie; I still felt all the emotions, every fucking one of them. I still felt the burden of loneliness, loss, and rejection on my fragile soul. And I was afraid because the pain never stops...just like the blood won’t stop.