I don’t wear shorts

When springtime rolls around I get this horrible, anxious feeling directly related to the wearing of short sleeved shirts.

See, I was one of those super secret cutters in high school. I know, I know, fucking emo and lame. But let me just clarify, I did this before it was cool, before it was even known about. I had no idea that anyone else did it, and I thought I was a crazy person for many years for indulging in this strange emotion release. It was not cool. It was survival.

When “cutting” became known to the general population, I was mad. I was mad that kids were treating it like it was cool, but more-so angry because no one had told me that I was not alone, but part of a sort of community. I was mad that kids were doing it out of peer pressure once it became known. I was mad that there was fashion for scar cover. I was mad that it was called “emo.” I was mad that it was a party for them.

I was mad that they weren’t telling the truth.

Sure, some kids may be cutting pictures into their arms because they want to fit in, but I’m willing to bet that the truth of the situation is is that they feel just as messed up and turmoil filled as I did, and their coping mechanism of choice is to write it off as a status thing. Once I realized that their lies were just a different sort of path than how I chose to hide, I realized that I was just glad that they knew they’re not alone. The night around the campfire with a friend from school when I figured out she was doing the same thing as me… my entire perception on it changed. I was glad I could talk to someone about it and she understood completely. I was glad that I didn’t have to come up with an excuse. I was glad that I didn’t have to figure out why I was doing it, because I had no idea. I was glad someone else’s pain could help me get through my own. I’m glad that parents are being educated about the situation, so that their kids don’t have to hide it for fear of recource as I did. But still through all the information that we’ve been given, still people don’t understand unless they’ve been there.

I get really pissed at young me. Well, no, I get really conflicted feelings when I go into “Regret Mode.” I know that I would not have become the person I am today had I not gone through the things I had or made the mistakes I repeatedly made, and I like the person I am now….but at the same time I just want to go back and scream at my younger self about how I was permanently ruining my body! But it’s fruitless, useless, why live in constant regret.

I have to live with the stupidness of my youth, and if I can…embrace it. I wish I could have a sense of pride for making it through what I did without blowing my brains out or going an inch deeper on my wrists, but most of the time I just feel guilt and shame for indulging in self-destructive behavior and not being stronger while handling my journey to finding myself. I also wish that other people could be proud of my (triumph?), but they just look at me like I’m crazy and damaged. Mostly.

I’m the girl that pulls up only one sleeve to the elbow, who folds her arms over her chest in a certain hiding way, sits on one hand with the forearm pushed against her side while she talks with you, and wears pants when it’s 100 degrees outside. I’m the girl that you happen to notice some funny scars on, and she pleads silently in her gaze for you to not mention it or stare.

I stopped doing it years ago without conscious decision. I just….stopped. I didn’t need to do it anymore. But still I have all of these super unsexy scars, faded though they are. Even though I would like to think of them as battle wounds, unfortunately others think of them as “craziness indicators.” Mostly I was a cutter of the leg meats, and as a result I haven’t worn shorts for …8 years now. I got some tattoos to cover the more “disturbing” of the scars, the huge deep “NO” just above my knee (or, “ON” from another view…I wasn’t thinking about other words it could be at the time) is now a butterfly. The lines upon lines upon lines on my other leg are now semi-covered by ivy, beautiful ivy. But there’s another patch of lines under my knee, and the ivy doesn’t cover everything (certainly not the gross texture change that repeatedly separating my skin caused), so I still don’t wear shorts. And then there’s my arm.

The arm was reserved for particularly difficult times. I did have a bit of foresight on that one, and realized that I could not have too many arm scars, so I kept it mostly to the legs (though if i had been really smart I would have kept it to the UPPER legs, but no no, the thighs are almost scar free). So when I was particularly angry/depressed/empty/other teenage cliche was when I would go to the forearm for comfort. Which was dumb. Which was necessary.

I don’t know how to end this post. I don’t know why this post was my first one here, it certainly isn’t an indicator of day-to-day me. I guess I felt like I wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it today unless I put it down in words and out of my head. I guess my 3/4 sleeve shirt and thick bracelet combo not quite “doing it” for me set me off on this beautiful spring day, and it pissed me off that I couldn’t enjoy spring.

I guess what I want to say is thank you to my husband for never judging me, treating me like a crazy freak, or pushing me into an uncomfortable pant-less situation, even though you openly admit the inability to comprehend the pain that caused me to draw my own blood. Thank you for giving me a life in which I never feel the desire to do this to myself again.