by Jacqueline Dodd

Created on: September 06, 2008   Last Updated: October 31, 2008

Looking back on the event now, five years later, I can easily remember why I took that razorblade to the inside of my arm for the first time, but I come up blank when I try to recall where I got the idea from. I didn't know anyone who dealt with their issues that way, so I wasn't being influenced by a friend, sister or cousin. I might have seen something on the subject of cutting or self mutilation on some TV show, maybe a Dr. Phil or Oprah type program, alerting parents of the warning signs inidcating that their children have been slashing at themselves with the protractors from their geometry sets. I vaguely remember reading an article once upon a time about one of my favourite actresses who had been a cutter in her teenage years, but I know I didn't get the idea from her. I'm many things, but celebrity obsessed I am not, at least not to that extent. In the end I don't think it matters anyhow. No matter how it got there, the idea was in my head and for some reason or other on that day, the only way to feel normal again was to take my little pink razor from the side of my bathtub and drag it across the inside of my arm.

I remember doing it dozens of times over the course of about a year and I can still tell you what most of the events that triggered each one was. The first time I did it was to punish myself in a way for breaking a promise I'd made to someone important to me. In hindsight it wasn't anything monumental, but at the time it mattered - a lot. I was embarassed about it and furious with myself for doing what I said I wouldn't. But I didn't feel that I'd suffered enough and I needed to find a way to make sure I was properly disciplined for what I'd done. Ironically, after I'd decided that the five or six slashes across my skin were punishment enough, I actually felt better. A lot better. Cutting was originally supposed to be a penalty for my wrongdoing, but ended up being a way to acheive catharsis. It calmed me down and made me feel better when something had gone wrong in my life.

Each time I did it I noticed the pain less and less. It was like I built a tolerance, like one does to the effects of alcohol or drugs. Each and every time I cut I pushed down on the razor harder, sliced myself deeper. As I sit here writing this I can still vaguely make out a couple of scars from the more serious cuts which I will probably wear forever. And for what? In the end all it wound up doing was making me briefly feel better about myself and whatever I'd done, then

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