the pasta night

I have been a cutter. I previously denied it to myself because I was never consistent with it. In fact, this note originally began with "I am not a cutter." That being said, I have several faded, almost indistinguishable scars that would suggest otherwise. The first is on my hand. In high school I was curious about my pain threshold and how deeply I could allow myself to scratch with an exacto knife. It was not a deep cut, but the result is a tiny, straight, fine remnant of that curiosity. Similarly, on the inside of my right wrist I can still identify where I scratched myself with my own fingernail to the same end--just to scratch. Just to see the skin eventually begin to tear. I honestly never imagined that these self-inflicted and superficial wounds would still be visible 15 plus years later. Additionally, I never imagined that I would remember the specific acts of what can be considered nothing less than mild forms of self-harm. The truth is this: I was afraid of pain and torture-- which could be interpreted emotionally as well as physically-- and I sought, through these meager measures, to feel a sense of control over it. I can also remember, at a very young age, running the bath water too hot and letting myself feel its burn.

So my experiments with withstanding pain began long before my adolescent trials with exacto knives and fingernails, but they were also not limited to such obvious methods. At 15 years I would hit my rough, 80-pound, canvas heavy bag without wrapping my hands or wearing gloves. Then I would gaze, with warped pride at my bloodied, angry knuckles. In play fights with my brother, I would insist, annoyed, that he quit pulling his punches. I wanted to be tough, and I was eager to prove--to myself, I suppose--that I could deal with hurt. Maybe that's why, in middle and high school, I got into piercing. I had always wanted, for strictly esthetic purposes, more earrings and facial adornments, but I think there was more to these body modifications than getting to wear extra jewelry. I pierced my own ears, my own eyebrow, my own nose, and my own navel. Eventually, I continued on these endeavors through professional (and sterilized) means, but I began in front of a mirror with a safety pin and rubbing alcohol.

Why am I writing about this?

There was another time... But I was older. I was well out of high school and I had already graduated from college. I found myself in a situation in which I was the bearer of the loaded, confused, obstinate silence of One and the lonely, dejected, emotional needs of the Other. I played the part of the island near which could be seen the One, quiet, well-guarded vessel anchored, and onto which the Other’s emotional waves kept crashing in the hopes of making contact with the vessel. Home was several countries away and I felt alone, emotionally chaotic, and without resources. So years ago, after a particularly emotional correspondence, I drank a pirate’s ration of rum, then took a knife and began to cut myself. Just like in high school, the scratches were barely visible with the first stroke. I hadn't the courage to plunge right in, or perhaps--more likely--the hesitation was the silent protest of my sanity as my marbles were swimming around in a swirling concoction of emotional turmoil and rum. I continued to scratch--in a trance almost--until I had 4 bleeding, ragged horizontal lines on the inside of my leg, just above the ankle. It felt meditative, and I felt like I'd regained some control over myself. I channeled emotional anxiety into physical pain, which must have felt powerful. The truth, however, is that I'd crumbled. I hadn't gained control. Instead, I had surrendered it to a shadow of myself while the strong, solid, spirited me abandoned post and allowed physical me to pay the price.

After dressing my wounds, I returned to my initial project that night of making pasta for the following day's trip to the beach. Maybe it was the substantial amount of rum coursing through my veins, or maybe it was my vision--and, thus, my ability to eye-ball teaspoons and tablespoons—that was blurred by the subsiding tears from the previous hours spent in self-pity, but either way the results were devastating for the pasta. At the beach, my sweet neighbors had already politely and painfully choked down a few bites of my atrocious potluck offering before I realized, myself, that the amount of ridiculously spicy chile I had added was setting mouths ablaze. Tongues and lips were scorched as a result of my sad, drunken, 2am whirl around the kitchen. This could be the moral to the story, but somehow, I think there's more....

The scars are almost invisible now, so I no longer have to conjure up lame, implausible stories about tripping over rakes or fighting off large, aggressive cats or badgers or trolls, but there are deeper implications regarding this memory. Reading this entry, one might almost think I’m advocating for this sort of coping mechanism, but let me be clear: CUTTING IS NOT A COPING MECHANISM. It does not prove or cultivate strength or control. It was my lack of tools and confused boundaries, combined with my fears that led me to do the things I did. I was consumed by what I couldn’t control—emotional (and physical) pain—and I have scars that attest to my unmanaged chaos.

There have been a few times since the pasta incident where I was tempted to relinquish my sanity in favor of injurious behavior, but (in spite of setbacks) life is too good and too short and there are plenty of alternatives to self harm. In those moments I've journaled or gone dancing or to yoga or watched light hearted movies instead--there's a big soft spot in my heart for anything Pixar--and I've allowed my marbles to be still. In this way, the chaos subsides. In this way, I’ve chosen wellness.

I write this with several friends, acquaintances, and loved ones in mind. There are better answers.