On February 5, 2008, I cut myself for the first time. I wake up the next morning with an angry long gash tracing across the length of my arm; the red contrasting with the pale milky skin. I stare at the wound feeling the histamines working in my blood. I walk inconspicuously into the bathroom and grabbed a whole box of alcohol swabs. Back in my room I rip open each packet and squeeze the alcohol onto my arm. My skin hisses as the cut glows redder. I rub my skin harder and harder until the pain was unbearable.
I am 15 years old and I have a habit of inflicting pain on myself. What was a one time experiment became a daily routine. My friends call people who cut themselves emo people. And I laugh with them every time one walks by at school. But I conveniently forget to tell them that I had become one of them. I’m no regular “emo.” I don’t wear heavy eye liner, black lipstick and I don’t have a lot of piercings. Actually I don’t even have my ears pierced. My wardrobe isn’t made up of black somber clothing but bright pastel colors. But I do hurt myself…every night.
Unlike the other typical “emo” people, I didn’t make a new cut everyday. Instead, I inflict pain on the same wound so it can never heal. Sometimes, I sprinkle salt across my wound. Other times, I drench my arm in hairspray. Then if the pain isn’t enough, I took to pouring nail polish remover down my arm. Each day, as I sit in school, I think of new ways to torture my arm. And each night, I sit in my room and carry out my plans of torment. In a matter of days, the little wound grew bright and purple. It hurts even to have air touch it. But I didn’t stop. I welcome pain.
I’m sick. My masochistic behavior disturbed me. But something about it makes me feel in control of my own body. I determine whether or not my wound gets better. I alone can make myself heal if I choose to. On February 10, 2008, I rush home in a hurry, anxious to examine my arm. My latest whim of destroying my self is in the kitchen cabinet. I grab a bottle of red pepper powder; the kind that’s imported from Thailand and can be used as a self defense mechanism in case of an attack. I went into the bathroom and threw the whole jar onto my already swollen arm. I gasp and the powder whips into the air. It flies in my eyes and travels up my nose. I cough, my face turning red. Pain shoots up and down my arm like an electrical charge. I lean against the wall and slide down to my knees. I close my eyes and wait for the pain to subside.
On February 13, 2008, I wake up in the middle night with a fever. My arm feels like it’s on fire while the rest of my body is bathed in chills. My muscles jerk as if I have tetany. I clamp my teeth together and shut my eyes. I am determined to get through the night. The next day I examine my arm. It’s not an arm anymore. At least it didn’t look like one. What was once a smooth and slender arm was now a puffy pus oozing mess. Even I can’t look at it anymore. I didn’t go to school that day. I stare at my arm for the better part of the day. Then I walk into the kitchen and turn on the stove. I don’t know what I’m thinking but I know exactly what I’m doing. I hold my arm in front of the fire, feeling the warmth against my skin. I move it closer, feeling the heat grow. I move even closer still so that the fire is licking at my disgusting lesion. I let the fire eat away at my flesh. My screams fill the kitchen, travels through the living room, echoes through the bedrooms and returns back to me.
I was admitted into the North Shore Children’s Hospital at 5:08 P.M. February 14, 2008. My parents come home to find me passed out on the kitchen floor in a pool of blood and my somewhat alive limb. The doctors tried to save it but between the numerous ordeals I put it through and my fiery finally, there was little else that can be done. My arm was dead. I had burned through the tendons and my skin cells were thoroughly damaged possibly by the pepper incident. It left them with no choice but to amputate it. I woke up 5 days later on February 19, 2008 with no recollection at all of what happened. But I saw the length difference between my two arms. My mother sat next to me staring in disbelief
Why would you do something so stupid? Her eyes seemed to ask. I shook my head and turned around so I didn’t have to see her. “I needed help,” I croaked out. “And that was the only way I can ask for it.”