Writing

The way this works is essentially simple. I think of something and then inscribe it. The way this therefore dubs me as psychologically disturbed is the fact that I inscribe it onto my arm with a Stanley knife. One thing to note is that I’m not trying to draw blood. If I did try that, I’d be breaking a promise I’d made to a friend long ago, but I do make it go white which then turns to red. Maybe I just like watching it change colour.

It burns you know? Not a lot, just enough to give me a satisfied ‘completed’ sort of feeling, though that might just be because I wrote the entire word down. She gets worried about me all the time. They all get worried. I might be perfectly happy one second and then, wham, I’d be down in the gutter in the next second. If it lasts too long I’d wind up sitting on my bed with the Stanley knife again.

I lost the Stanley once. So I used my nails. It wasn’t as easy and it wasn’t as fun or satisfying but it got the job done. I have my theories that they took the knife and hid it, but then again, I found it again later so it doesn’t really matter. She usually notices first. Jumpers and the like itch too much for me to wear them properly and every time I move a certain way and aggravate it, I wince a little. Not everyone notices, but that just means I get to avoid all the awkward questions.

See the way it started was weird actually. We were in a tour group or something and exploring the university campus. Then I got kind of freaked out by something and clung to her arm. Not the smartest decision I’d ever made considering I was crushing on her, but I can’t remember if I knew that yet or not. Either way, clinging to her arm served to calm me a little, but I think I was more annoying than anything else so she sort of ignored me.

That’s when I decided to try nails; something to just ground me a little more and remind me that I’m real. The pain was what made me feel again and so I trusted in it. Every time I felt scared I dug my nails into my arm. Eventually it got worse. I started running my fingernails down my arm to get a bigger sting and she looked at me strangely but didn’t say anything.

After that day, I dragged my fingernail down my arm every time I got freaked out or depressed. Then it got worse. I was in English class and felt like crap so I borrowed her scissors and dug that down my arm instead just to get it to sting. Later, her only response was ‘Now I’ve got your skin on my scissors’, and then a laugh before looking at me strangely and mildly concernedly again.

That was the beginning of scissors and other sharp implements. It was also the first time I tried to write words with a sharp object. My lines turned into letters, my letters turned into words and phrases and soon I was writing phrases the moment I picked up the scissors. Technically I only wrote one phrase or one word. It was either ‘Inconsequential Failure’ or ‘Inconsequential’. I think ‘Inconsequential’ became her least favourite word in the world.

The first time she noticed it. She covered the ‘in’ and said ‘you’re consequential’. I asked her about the failure bit and she just shook her head as though it wasn’t even worth looking at. It doesn’t really matter what she says though, does it?

After a while I began to get nervous and my temper flared quickly. I hurt her feelings more than once and apologised more than once, but it never made up for the fact that I’d hurt her. I can’t look at her anymore without feeling like I owe her more than I could ever give. That added on top of the fact that I can’t really look at her without wanting to just hold her and never let go makes for a lot of awkwardness.

I guess I’m venting a little; there isn’t much else I can say. I haven’t ‘scratched’ in a while, but it’s obvious that they’re still mildly concerned about it. Now it’s just half a memory and half a lie.