Today I was sitting at my window, looking at my old scars and I came upon a really old one, probably one of the first ones.
I remember like it was just yesterday night. It was during my angsty
teen years, I was such a rebel back then (such crap style too, but
that's the 70's for you). Anyways I remember that I was angry with my
parents, I always was back in those days. I didn't know where I
belonged, I wanted to know why my real parents had abandoned me, why
was I such a worthless baby that they had to dump me. Why didn't they
keep me? Why was I always such a fuck up in every way?
Come to think of it now, I still ask myself those same questions. Why is that I'm always the one who's wrong and the last one to be heard?
That day, I had been sitting by my window looking outside at all the stupid happy children, with their idiotic perfect families, I was blaming myself for having my mother give me away. After all maybe she knew I'd grow up to be such a disaster. Why would anybody care for me? I didn't deserve to have anyone who cared. I was hurting people, because they cared about me. I was so angry with myself, I just wanted to be the one who suffered. I sat there listening to my punk rock, smoking my cheap cigarettes by the window becoming more and more enraged with myself. I looked at my hands, and inside I just kept getting worse.
I never do anything right, I never get the grades. I fail at everything. You're stupid Paige. You'll never be good enough for anyone. You're always hurting people. You don't deserve to be cared about.
That's when I first did it, I turned my cigarette to my hand, and put it out in it. Right in the center of my hand. My brain was telling me to stop, but I kept going, I needed that pain, I need to punish myself for hurting others. I was fighting with myself, my whole body was telling me no, but I deserved it. I always did.
I could feel my flesh burning under the lit cigarette, the ashes marking my sin. I wanted to yell, I wanted to do something to escape that pain... but did I really? Once it was out, I brushed away the ashes to see my burnt skin. It wasn't anything big, just a small circle of burnt flesh on the palm of my hand. It hurt so much, but it wasn't enough. It was never enough.
A friend of mine once gave me a small pendant with my name on it that I used to wear all the time, I broke my necklace and pulled off the pendant. It wasn't sharp enough to do any damage if I just wanted to cut myself. But my sensitive skin in the palm of my hand was a different story. In my anger I rubbed the smooth, thin edge of my pendant on the frail skin, skinning my palm. I looked at it for a few second, observing the water that my body was trying to put out my pain with, I laughed at myself. My own body telling me no, but my mind telling me I had to. The open wound stinged to no end, but the pain wouldn't suffice, I needed more. I tore the skin away, opening the wound further. I started slashing sideways, my blood started to pool up on top. Now I was alive. I continued to make it deeper and deeper, getting more and more blood out of there. Eventually the pain became nothing, but I had an insatiable thirst to get more. Unfortunately the pendant wouldn't do the job and I had nothing else. I sat there staring at my hand, feeling the pain throbbing in my hand. I closed my nails on it, when I opened my hand my blood was freely flowing all of my hand. I deserved worse, but this would have to do for now.
After a while, the feeling that I need more hurt was gone.
For a while I'd walk with my hand open, feeling the air hit my skin. It was a constant reminder of my errors, what a damn worthless rat I was. Anything that came in contact with it, would hurt me for seconds longer than a normal wound. I was glad.
Ah the first time. We never really forget it, huh?
Kids just do the darnest things.
