At A Glance
Author	Laura McCarthy
Contact	laura_popple@yahoo.co.uk
IAM	Lozza_mc
When	Two years ago

Blood.

On my arm.

Did I do that?

No, surely I didn't. I'm not crazy. Only crazy people cut themselves... don't they?

Look, there I go again... more blood... more pain.

Oh god, what am I doing?

I was 16 years old. My life had just been turned upside down. My mother had just kicked me out of home; I had no money, no food, no friends, and no job. I spent all my time sleeping, trying to stop the pain in the pit of my stomach, ease the desperate loneliness (and the hunger).

The first time was the scariest. To this day, I do not understand why I started. I was changing a light bulb in my rotten little bedsit, and I dropped the old bulb onto the floor. Being the messy slob that I am, it landed on a plate, and smashed. I got down from my bed, and started to pick up the shards. One piece was quite large, and it caught my finger. A teeny droplet of blood bubbled up from the cut. I didn't think anything of it as I wiped it on my arm. I wrapped the shards in kitchen roll, and left them on the side. I should have put them in the bin, but it was almost overflowing.

I sat back down on the bed, and started to read. I spent a lot of time reading, and playing Playstation games. There wasn't a lot else to do without money or friends. I started to scratch my arm, and realised that it was the blood drying that was causing my skin to itch. As I scratched, I imagined more blood pouring out from under my skin. The next moment went in a blur, I do not remember decided to get off my bed, reaching over and getting the large shard of light bulb, and returning to my bed. I had the shard in my hand... so close to my skin. I danced the edge over my skin, making the hairs of my arm stand on end. Then I grazed the skin. A red mark appeared on my arm.

That wasn't what I wanted. I wanted to break through my skin. I wanted to see if I could actually test my own limits and break my flesh of my own free will. I pushed the shard deeper; I could feel my skin come apart. Blood started to swell up around the glass. I pulled the shard towards me, the resistance of my skin started to give way. After about 2 inches, I took the shard away from my arm. There was blood... but not enough. I brought the shard to my arm again, trying to cut deeper, as if somehow a deep cut was the answer to everything.

When a droplet of blood splashed onto my leg, I seemed to awaken from my trance. I threw the shard across the room and cried. I broke down completely. I felt that I had sunk lower than I ever had. Had my life really come to this?

I didn't tell anyone, I was too afraid that I would be labelled, as I had already labelled myself. Admittedly at the time it was a very narrow-minded label, but it stuck with me, at the time, nonetheless.

One scar wasn't a problem to hide, but it wasn't the last I'm afraid. After that initial fear that controlled me after the first time, for some reason I wanted to do it again. So I did.

Once again I was sat in my room. This time I had a bulb in my hand. The remains of the previous one had been thrown away with shame. I didn't know how I was going to do this, even if I was going to do it. I decided that I wanted to see the blood again, prove it was real. I wrapped the bulb in a tea towel, and smashed it with one of my heavy books. Tenderly, I un-wrapped it, and saw the many glittering shards sparkling at me. I picked up the biggest once again, and started the dance on my arm. Once the hairs were raised, I started to rupture the skin. I didn't feel any pain; I was so focused on letting the blood out. I was in a trance yet again, feeling that if I let the blood spill, that it would somehow cleanse me of all the horror in my life. It would stop everything being too complicated, because all my focus was on that cut on my arm.

I never felt any pain until afterwards, when I had come out of my 'trance' and I had started to realise what I had done. I often occurred late at night, or early morning, depending on how you look at it. When I felt my most desolate, it seemed like my only companion. Sometimes, it didn't offer any form of release, it just showed me that I was real, and everything I was experiencing was real too, which would make me feel worse. Most of the time, it gave me another focus. Something besides my misery, that seemed to engulf me.

Sometimes I just scratched, making a raised red mark on my arms; sometimes I pulled off the scabs that occurred, making more blood. It became more difficult to hide as time went on. I didn't have many marks, but the ones I had were a mess, red, scabby and growing in size by the day. But still, it became a habit. What happened once a week became everyday. I re-cut over the marks over and over again. This was no attempt at suicide, as depressed at my situation as I was; I knew I would someday overcome it. For the while, it kept me occupied. It gave me a form of release that was deeply personal to me. In retrospect, I think that this form of 'self harm' helped me survive my darkest teenage days.

My parents found out. My mother came over, and she saw my arm. Crying followed from both of us; I could tell my mum thought she had failed me. Again that night I cut. Tears fell onto my arm mingling with the blood, the release didn't come. I still felt overwhelmed with grief; for my lost life, my friends, family, everything. It wasn't long after that day, after another failed attempt at release, when I realised that cutting wasn't helping me anymore. I didn't feel anything, other than physical pain at what I was doing. It didn't hold anymore appeal to me anymore. So I stopped.

Occasionally, I tried it again, when I felt utterly low, but the feelings behind it were never as intense as the first time. Sometimes, I scratch at my arm. When I am nervous, or upset, and there have been occasions when I have scratched the skin raw, causing speckles of blood to seep through the sore layer of skin. It is never on purpose when I do this; it's an unconscious display of my inner feelings. Luckily, my dear and wonderful partner Popple knows this, and can distract me from doing it. Its amazing how much my life has changed from the time I lived in a grotty bedsit, with nothing better to do than rip my arm. Just shows that there could be hope for everyone. I was lucky. It didn't last long with me. I think it was about 6 months. The scars have healed, but I doubt they will ever fade. They remind me of what I survived, and I am proud to bear the scars! Freak is all a matter of definition. If I am a freak by these scars, so be it!