Cutting

I shot my medication at around 8:30 PM. I was almost violent or rebellious about the needles. I have been squeamish in the past. But I knew I was going to cut afterwards and the last thing I wanted to do was go all wiggly because of the needles.

I had a particularly good cutting tonight. I very slowly pressed the razor into the outer part of my lower left arm. I felt a small prick as the edge broke the skin. The really good thing was sliding the razor very slowly through my skin. The first cut was terrific. The second two were acceptable but not as consistently deep, although they bled quite nicely. I cut a couple of more times. Then I sort of became angry or impatient. I cut quickly at several places. The upshot is my lower arm is pretty much covered with cuts.

I wrapped a chain around my right wrist. I remember looking at it and deciding to not cut until it was on. It's fastened with a key ring – getting it on was a hassle and a half. For some reason this was part of the ritual. I did not want to cut until the chain was secured.

And it is indeed a ritual. I had wanted to pour melted wax into the wounds I made several nights ago but was surprised by the amount of bleeding. I wasn't very prepared. This time I had everything ready. I had a paper towel in my lap to catch the blood. I had alcohol swabs to clean the skin before cutting it and the blade before cutting with it. I had the white candle burning in the blue candlestick. I lit the room with candles. I played Water for the Dead by Ego Likeness on the stereo. I let the wounds bleed. It was fascinating to feel the blood dripping along my arm and down onto the paper towel in my lap. It bled so much from the first cut that it formed a sort of globule, hanging from the underside of my arm. How odd.

Best of all, I had sufficient control over the process (probably because it wasn't new to me anymore) to drip melted wax into the wounds. I had planned to do this the first time but became flummoxed by the bleeding. The wax burned where it hit the unmarked skin. I had to really pile it on some of the wounds to get the bleeding to stop. I placed a folded paper towel against my wounds and taped it to my arm. I wrapped the entire lower arm in elastic tape.

It was much better than the first time but some work is still necessary. I need to obtain sterile gauze to wrap around the wounds. I am going to need more surgical tape, too. I also need to focus. I think I'm still afraid of the pain, albeit less so this time. I now know that it's trivial. But it disrupted my concentration, my attempt to merge with the music while cutting. One good thing: It's a Saturday night, so I was able to play the stereo very loud. I need to get an extension cord for the headset so that I can listen to the stereo at full blast during the week without disturbing my neighbors.

I wrote a poem about the experience. I have to be very, very careful about revealing this, or anything else that might suggest that I'm suicidal (which I am not.) I posted the poem to the poetry forum of Icarus and added it to my web site. Yes. I came out of the shadows to post the poem. I'm calling out. Why? Why? There were concerned messages for me on Icarus when I logged in. I was touched but not in the mood for intellectual discourse. I told them I'm cutting tonight and would get back to them.

I'm very torn about this. On the one hand I can hear a voice screaming at me, This Is Insane! But I have an almost addictive fascination with it. It's something that belongs to me. I am alone, this is true. And I am beginning to realize that I will be alone for what is left of my life. Professionals will care for me as long as I can pay the bill. Anonymous people on the Internet will sympathize with me. But fundamentally I am utterly alone. I am an outcast barely able to even fit in among the other outcasts.

I am an outcast among outcasts.

I no longer have any dignity. The courts, the doctors, all of it, they have taken my privacy from me, my freedom, and now they want to look into my very soul and correct it. This corner is mine. A small stool away from the others, perhaps. But it's my stool. Mine. I refuse to reveal this.

This is something I've always wanted to do. I remember sitting up late at night, horribly depressed while my second wife slept in the other room, watching a punk movie with Blondie. What was it about? There was cutting and sex in it. I remember thinking how incredible it would be to crank the pounding of her music into my open wounds. To cut my shoulders with a lover. To hold her and feel the sticky blood merge with hers. God how I loved Blondie. That silky voice so full of pain and violence and unfulfilled inarticulate desire.

I don't know why but I gravitated to the bipolar chat room. I was very strange. Some people started talking to me and we moved to another room. My bandage was hurting. A man suggested that I loosen it. How stupid. I was very, very strange. I've since removed the elastic tape – I think it was pressing the dried wax uncomfortably into the soft underside of my arm. I think they were worried I might keep cutting or kill myself. I'm not sure, but I think they may have been psychotherapists. Or in any event, familiar with cutting.

One person, a woman I think, said she was a cutter. So I guess there's a term for it. Imagine. But the really amazing thing was that they said many people in my age group do this. I was flabbergasted. I thought it was a phenomenon confined to the late teens and early twenties. Wait... I know why I went there. I got a note from someone on the BAC board suggesting that I attend the cutter's chat at 7:30 PM on Thursday. I guess I was sort of nosing around in advance. At some level I guess I want someone to talk me out of this. I wish them luck.

I am beginning to wonder if the manic episode I experienced a couple of weeks ago was an anomaly. I don't seem to cycle like other BP people. I may not have BP after all. In that case, what is wrong with me? I mean, I know that I've been in the movie before in my life. Interesting note: The woman in the chat room asked if it was like looking at life through a tube. It is, although I never thought of it that way before. But what is it? I am getting increasingly confused. Perhaps Sam was right about not trying to diagnose this on my own. But my curiosity is insatiable. Should I tell him about the cutting? The people in the chat think I should. I'm ambivalent.

I am going to cut again.