Punishing MyselfWhen I was younger, in sixth and seventh grade, I cut myself because it seemed all of my friends were doing it. But the cuts were more like scratches. My cat would leave worse marks. But I always felt this twisted sort of pride in these really shallow, short, bright red marks. My mother caught me one day, having seen them on my wrist when I reached to change the radio station.
And I stopped. For a few years.
Recently, I started up again.
I've been in a really serious relationship with my girlfriend for 7 months, and we've moved past the flirtatious girly teasing, into more serious things. This includes sex things. And I'm so ashamed of my body. I'm short and curvy, but I don't see anything good in it, I always just want to lose forty or fifty pounds; if I did, I'd be the same size as the other girls my age.
And I wanted to be thin and skinny for my girlfriend. She said she never wanted me to diet, but I can't accept that. How can I? I'm huge.
So I made a plan.
For every thing I eat, one cut. Not too deep, not to big, easily hid on the places I hated about myself, thighs and stomach and upper arms. Spray it with disinfectant and Listerine to clean it and make it really sting and burn. And I really hate the pain, the way it makes me have to wear long sleeved shirts and bandage my legs before I put on my jeans. I got down to only one or two cuts a day: some toast in the morning and a glass of juice before bed.
But I've started to eat more again, and I've stopped caring about the cutting. I welcome it. The cuts are deeper and longer. The pain as I clean and bandage them is comforting.
I don't know why. Why I hate myself and my body so much that I have to have red stuff running down my arm to justify the fact I wake up every morning.
I just want it to stop. I love her, but I hate me.