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Don’t You Know a Cutter When You See One?

May 28, 2014

I’ve been working fairly hard to avoid cutting recently, having replaced the need with piercings and an extra rep on weights or an additional quarter mile on the treadmill, but lately, in the wake of having another potential relationship go sour, it’s become somewhat more difficult. On Monday night, all I could think about was getting home and opening a new blade. Fortunately (I guess), the intake of sugar and carbs punctuated with acute stress left me with a vomit-inducing migraine instead and so I was spared the impending backslide.

Then yesterday, Round One invited an old friend to join us at the gym because she needs to get out of the house more. He convinced her to try benching, and have me spot her while he did some other lifting on his own. Great. Let’s put the two introverts together. Brilliant, Round One. I smiled at her kindly and got her situated. As she prepared mentally for her first set, I noticed a few things about her – her makeup was too heavy, especially for the gym; she’s pale and loosely jointed, skinny but without strength; and her arms are covered in small, straight scars.

“Ah,” I thought. “This must be why Round One wants us to bond and become friends.” How lovely. I say nothing to her about the scars, of course, nor do I mention it to Round One when we find ourselves alone again later in the evening. But after spotting her on the weights, I pushed myself through extra sets of every exercise I did, pushed myself an extra half mile, only to find I still wanted to go home, be alone, and split open my skin until I was effing beautiful again. Instead, I drove Round One home and tucked myself into bed, angry that I haven’t yet pushed myself hard enough at the gym. Go until you drop, Twig. Add more weight. Increase your reps. Run faster. Run further. Just go until you drop, you fucking sissy. 

Tonight, I will. No excuses, and no safety limits. Further, faster, harder, more.

We call this healthy, but it’s still destructive.

It’s confusing, this line we draw between insanity and the status quo.

We talk to God, and it’s religion. When God talks back, we’re schizophrenic.

When we test our body’s limits physically and feed the desire for an endorphin rush, we’re health conscious. When we cut to numb the pain, we’re suicidal.

I can play that game. I know what is expected of me, so fucking bring it on, and let me show you how it’s done.

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