Cutting Deep

I haven't forced myself to throw up in years.

I never was a 'cutter'. That might have more to do with ignorance. Or the lack of reliably sharp knives. Also my ignorance of straight razors. And the general fear of pain has always been a real deterrent for me.

But I understand the draw. At least I think I do.

Bulimics get control, in a way, of the only thing they can control: their body. (My flirting with this particular form of self abuse was before I understood the patriarchy of the 70's 80's and today. And, no- that isn't a slogan of a low-frequency radio station. It is what it is.)

Back in the day I KNEW I couldn't control my life, and thanks to a father that regularly had us go and get a switch from a tree in order to avoid blowing out the straps on his slippers by beating us with them- I also understood pain, violence, and abuse against my corporeal personage.

Bulimia was a way I could punish myself. Or gain control. Or whatever I thought I was doing.

Something secret. Forbidden. (Not that I asked, of course. But I knew it would be a Bad Idea and Not What We Do.) It was my secret.

So? Cutting? I guess that is done in secret, but a pain in the ass to keep to just yourself. There's the blood, and of course the scars. Long sleeves? Maybe long slacks? Just jeans and sweats? And it must hurt something fierce.

Both share something, I think.

Both give a person a temporary relief. That taking action. Doing the forbidden. The shameful. An act to and against the body that, and only speaking for myself here, that isn't highly esteemed by its inhabitant.

Planning for it. Preparing. Having the words ready in case you need to explain. Always on the verge of quitting. Of moving on. Just-about-ready-to stop. Any minute now.

One. More. Time.

Am I advocating for these things? Oh; hell no. No. No. No. Never. Not at all. It's a symptom, though, not the problem. Just the outward manifestation of inward turmoil seeking a way OUT. A way THROUGH.

I understand better, now, I think. Now; I write.

It's the same release. The same relief. Just not quite as secret... although the people that read what I write is a much smaller group than my high school class and I'm not likely to be thrown in the hospital for being a writer.

Not yet, anyway, even as we gear up for four years of possibilities for punishment at the drop of a red gimme-cap; we aren't likely to be facing punitive actions for writing.

But the release of power, of tension, of secrets? That must be close to what I used to feel after flushing a perfectly valid mushy carb down the drain in the corner stall of a ladies room near you.

A fellow writer included words (I see you, Paul) about writers cutting deep when they write. As if it was forbidden. And, just maybe, it is.

Right now, these days, I am learning to omit certain parts of my life, of myself, of who I thought I was and what I thought my life was/would be/had been. To strip it from my writing deliberately.

Cutting deep, Paul, drawing a red line down the ageing and seldom seen by the sun parts of me, waiting for the hurt to start and the blood to bead. Wondering if there is substance left, now. Wondering if there is a different Me, now.

Trying to see myself through eyes I didn't realize were gazing with unseen emotions and deciding that; No. Just. No.

And when you must edit the words before they are formed, what do you do then?

There is no finger long enough to provoke their removal. There are no blades sharp enough to cut through skin that suddenly must become much thicker lest a person break into a million stars from the pain.

Instead, I imagine, you try to write about it without writing about it.

And then, I suppose, you wait for the release and clarity of legend to consume you.

~~

Jessica closed the pages of the old journal. She didn't remember writing them. Didn't remember feeling those hot desires and wild cravings. It looked like her writing, though.

She put the slim leather bound book, most of the pages still blank, back in the box to be dropped off at recycling.

Might as well get something out of it. Maybe it would come back as a paper cup? Or shreds in the weave and weft of paper towels. Or else just burnt away forever.