When I was a teenager and into my early twenties I cut, and I cut a lot. At one point there was no visible skin on my arms, just healing cuts. Since those years I've been able to withhold doing so except for the truly bad times when it feels like my nervous system is under attack. I don't know how to explain it without misrepresenting my actions, but I know it was something that I felt like I had to do – like the pain had nowhere else to go and started manifesting on the surface of me.
I went to an intensive mental health program for high school and it was mostly tolerated because there wasn't much they could do besides try to figure it out and encourage me to quit. My parents took everything sharp out of my bedroom back then but I just did stuff like break glass to use. I started cutting my face at one point, though, and I got committed. So I stopped cutting my face. Over the years it became more and more of a secret when I did cut as I was trying to put on the cloak of adulthood.
People say that it feels good, but it never felt good to me. I think they're being too simple with their language. Like how the opposite of depression isn't happiness but vitality, to cut doesn't feel good but it feels like… finding a creature of comfort within pain. They say it releases dopamine, so I guess that makes sense on some level.
I'm 35 now and my arms and legs are mostly faded maps of old memories. …There's where I was going to cut with a razorblade attached to a Dremel, but it slipped out of my hand first and tore up my forearm enough that my fatty tissue was coming out. There's where I sliced into my wrist from a razor attached to my dresser top. There's where I took a knife and just swiped it through. Etc.
I'm not ashamed of my scars. Like I said, they're faded a good bit, but I don't hide what's left. Just the other week a woman at the hospital was all friendly with me until I rolled up my sleeve to get my blood taken, and then she shut down. Yes, lady, I have lived.