Like a large portion of the population, I had some pretty terrible teenage years. Drugs and alcohol were never an issue, thankfully, but a lot of other things were. I had an absolutely insane adoptive mother who really should not have been given as much as a goldfish to care for. I also suffered from depression and anxiety, and utilized very self destructive coping methods. Often, my mother would intentionally say or do something to put me in "that state of mind" and then leave me to cope in whatever way I might. If I did something silly, it would simply serve to prove the point she was so fond of making to everyone around us. She wanted the world to know that she was the unfortunate mother of a completely unhinged teenager who made her life miserable. On the plus side, this afforded me a lot of freedom and time alone, as she didn't want to be around me when not dragging me to therapists or telling me what a nut I was.
One particular memory really stands out, though it wasn't all that different from any other day around the same time. I had been living in Puerto Rico with a friend for the last year, and was home in upstate New York for the week. It was one of a couple forced visits home to my mom, who lived with her girlfriend. The back story on that one is an entirely separate can of worms that is best left unwritten, but suffice it to say I hated the girlfriend and the girlfriend hated me. It made for a very tense, uncomfortable family reunion. If I had to be in the house, I would spend most of my time in my bedroom.
The bedroom was done completely in white, much like a room in any mental institution. The white walls and harsh light emanating from fluorescent bulbs served to make the barely used furniture look even less inviting than it otherwise would have. In addition to the visual assault one suffered upon entering the excessively bright room, there was an overwhelming chemical stench of carpet cleaner and Febreze. It would seep into my sinuses in an all-out attack, leaving me dizzy and disoriented, while smelling strongly of what the bottle claimed was a fresh ocean breeze. Obviously, the room was not a place I chose to spend a lot of time.
It always seemed to be gray and raining in Ithaca. Though I've enjoyed the rain since I was a little girl, it has a way of magnifying my depression and back then the reactions to those feelings were very hard for me to control. At the time, I was in the beginning stages of my battle with self injury and had taken to carrying a straight razor in my pocket so it would always be accessible, should the need arise. The need arose a lot, unfortunately. Because it was so cold outside, I was able to hide my cuts beneath heavy sweatshirts and jackets and go outdoors to make those cuts in relative solitude.
This particular morning dawned cold and dark, the rain little more than a heavy mist that slowly accumulated into puddles on the road. I had gotten into an argument with my mother not long after waking up, and was upset. I clipped my Labrador's leash on, and we headed out into the rainy morning. As I ran, my feet made comforting slapping sounds on the road, and my dog's toenails clicked along just ahead of me. It was totally silent, and it seemed the rest of the world was tucked inside their warm, dry houses. There weren't even any cars.
My favorite place to go was a nearby park that was little more than a waterfall with a deep, turbulent pool at the base, surrounded by rocks and a long shale shelf to one side. The river flowing down out of it wasn't particularly attractive after about five hundred feet, so the actual park area wasn't huge. It was not a very popular destination for tourists or hikers, which was nice because that meant I usually had the whole park to myself. I have always loved the water, the sound and feel of it and the way it flows wherever it will, without regard for anything in its path. Water is an unstoppable force of nature, and I could sit forever in that park and watching the river cascade over the falls, surge down into the pool below, and then meander downstream to collect in lazy, silky pools. There is something really calming about water.
My dog and I charged through the parking lot and into the woods that led up to the river, looking around to see if anyone else might be there. As expected, it was just the pair of us and I felt safe to go sit down on a huge flat rock at the edge of the water. "My rock" was partially hidden in the bushes, behind an enormous fallen log and gave me enough privacy to feel comfortable doing just about anything there. I dropped the leash and dug around in my pocket for the razor, shoving aside dollar bills and fluffy bits of lint. The blade shone cold silver as it caught what little light the overcast sky offered, almost seeming to beckon to me.
The first cut was the only one I actually felt. If I hadn't been on the verge of panic over the emotions tearing through me, I probably couldn't have made the cut. I placed the sharp edge against soft skin on my wrist with a faint sense of dread and revulsion, then pressed down and watched the blood slowly well up around it. As soon as the cut was made, I was numb in my own head. I worked slowly, with a purpose. It wasn't something to do fast, or recklessly, it had to be done a certain way. The rock I was sitting on slowly became speckled red, little translucent orange-pink streams running into the river as the now steadily falling rain washed it down my arm. I sat there soaked through, sodden tangles of hair fallen over my face, water dripping slowly from the tips.
It was a feeling like no other. I didn't feel cold, or wet, or sad. The tightness in my chest was gone, my problems and my hurts were held at bay. It was like the entire world was frozen in time, like even the falling rain was suspended in midair. Everything was quiet and sparkling and good, I knew I was alive and okay.
I came back into myself abruptly, as usual. Suddenly the rain was wet and the rock was cold. The cuts burned fiercely, sending little shocks of pain through me each time a raindrop hit raw flesh. I looked at my bleeding arm, counted the cuts, and pulled down my sleeves. The blade went back home in my pocket and I wandered up the rocky path. My dog splashed around in the river happily, not especially concerned at my leaving her side.
I climbed over slick logs and broken pieces of shale, carefully making my way onto the slippery ledge alongside the base of the waterfall. There was a broken piece of rock wall just wide enough to sit, if you didn't lean too far forward. I sat and stretched out my bleeding arm to reach into the icy, frothing rapids. Black water swirled around my fingers, whitecaps slammed into the ledge I was sitting on and doused me in shockingly cold waves. The roar of the falls was deafening and drowned out all sound. I thought to myself that it would be so easy to just lean forward, slip into the water and let the current pull me into those inky depths. There was no one to hear me in the abandoned park on a rainy day. Not even the police patrolled the area.
I stayed there for a long time, just thinking. It was frightening and exhilarating all at once, and I wasn't sad at all... Just quiet and thoughtful. I reflected on all the things I had gone through, and on the things I was currently going through. I thought about the people I loved, and the people who loved me. I thought about my mother, and how much I despised the way she made me feel. I couldn't understand why she got so much pleasure out of telling me how broken and abnormal I was, or why she would tell random strangers that I was her "burden, a mentally ill teen" whose life she was fighting oh-so-hard to save. Eventually, it occurred to me that my life wasn't worth throwing away because of someone so petty and malicious. As reluctant as I was to go back, I knew I had to, and that there was some reason for all of this.
Being a cutter is a terrible thing, but if I had gone right to that ledge instead of sitting on my rock by the river and cutting, I wouldn't be here now. It was the only way to clear my head, and to get a grip on the overwhelming hurt I was carrying inside. The cutting is something that was extremely effective at the time, something I think was necessary to my survival for many years. Now that I'm older I've learned to control it and though it occasionally does rear its ugly head, it doesn't have any real function in my life anymore.