C.U.T.
by Simay
C.U.T.
Everyone knows that if the person you have a crush on doesn't know you exist, you just don't exist. When that combined with teenage angst and the lack of self-confidence, it led me to my first cut – my first "carving," more like. For self-destruction to take your hand and lead you to your weapon of choice, all you need is a little depression.
Reason to be depressed: he doesn't even know I exist.
Weapon of choice: Anything sharp.
For me it happened way too fast and almost unconsciously.
I was lost deep inside my thoughts, thinking, of course, about the boy I had a crush on. I was sitting with my legs up to my chest in front of the stereo, where I had lit candles on the floor. I was crying, sobbing as silently as I could so my mom wouldn't hear. All of a sudden, the razors sitting in the bathroom cabinet popped in my head. I went, and I grabbed, but I didn't know what to do for a while once I got back into my room: Shall I do it? Will it hurt? How much will I bleed? Will I die? What if I die?
I turned the music louder as if to get some support: "Your love is razorblade kiss…" First cut. "Sweetest is the taste from your lips… " Second cut. More cuts just followed, and I couldn't stop. My hand was moving against my will, making the red pop out from under the white skin. The more I cut, the less it hurt, the less it hurt, the more I cut. The rest, until I woke up to my mother's cries, is a big blur.
She asked me why I did it. What was wrong with me? She said I had everything I wanted, all the love I needed, then why was I getting into this kind of stuff?
She didn't know how he didn't even know I existed.
She didn't know the things I had didn't mean a thing as long as I didn't have him.
Most of all, when I think about it today, she didn't seem to remember how it was to be fifteen and lost and helpless and in love.
Cutting was an addiction, an obsession I took everywhere with me: stealing knives from the kitchen and hiding in the bathroom to not get caught, stealing scissors from the school's art department and locking myself into the bathrooms or hiding in a corner in the girls' locker room…
How did it end? Kind of like how it started; on its own, without asking me. It is still hiding somewhere inside me, but, as I got older, I learned how not to let it control me or defeat me.
On my bad days, I feel like reenacting Theresa Wayman's scene from "The Rules of Attraction," where she fills up the bathtub and slits her wrists just because Sean Bateman is in love with someone else…
Where is she now?
Dead.
Do I want to die for someone who doesn't know my name?
Fuck no.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Simay is a regular contributor to this website. However, if you would like to submit an article about music, culture, fashion, life, politics or anything that our readers may be interested in, contact me at anarchy@anarchymusic.net and we'll get the ball rolling.