CUTTING my patience with a serated knife.

A human has a limit of how much they can take. Both physically and mentally, there is a blurred line. Everyone has their own limit, no one can dictate where each persons line will fall. The past year I have known that I was approaching my line but it wasn't defined enough to where I could tell where it was going to be. I told everyone I was about to breache the forbidden snapping line. No one really believed me, I could feel it coming. Everyone always has known me as a person with serious anger problems. Never have I taken any shit. But it turns out in the end I pretty much might of swallowed the shit on a plastic spoon. I fooled myself into thinking I was strong that I was not taking any shit, that I had the upper hand. But in reality I was losing a never ending battle.


I remember, when I was in high school sitting on the "pillow couch" in my dads disgusting smoked filled apartment I had just got done being the care taker of the day again. Made sure everyone was alive. Made dinner, did the dishes. Made sure the laundry was clean, everyone was safely tucked away in the drug addicted slumber and I was watching t.v with my father. Of course we were watching what he deemed neccesary, which I believe was 60 minutes or dateline. Some hour long news show. They were specializing on cutting. Kids who do it, parents who have children who do it, the cycle. I remember thinking back then, how the fuck could these kids do this to themselves. Here I was being abused everyday and I had the will to survive. I lived for the days i would be allowed on the basketball courts, to the point i would play in 115 degree heat just for a moment of freedom. I will never forget the girls that were on that show, and the thought that went through my mind. The first time I ever heard or was tought about cutting.


Years went by and i was now 17 and pregnant. Living in bronx, NY. With a family that was not my own. One who hated my existance. I was in love with someone who treated me like shit, cheated and lied everyday.I was more mature than most people I knew, whether it was adults or fellow teenage piers and I had the IQ to match. I was writing resumes for people in bronx, because I was smarter than them. Yet even with my high intellect. I was not smart enough to leave a situation that was destroying my sole core in life. 17 and pregnant, that was the first time a man ever put his hands on me. 17 and pregnant that's the first time I ever cut. After a man that I loved more than anyone in the world and put his hands on me and kicked me in the stomach and choked me. I decided to hurt myself, if i hurt myself maybe it would be a defense. I took a broken piece of a cd that I snapped and took it my arm. Just a scratch. It got a reaction out of him, thats what i planned to happen. What i didnt plan to happen was the relief i got emotionally from it. Slowly the cutting was every once in a while, turned into a daily thing. it got the point of broken cds, to scissors, to kitchen knives, to razor blades. I will never forget the worse cutting I did. It was back in my house, I had a box cutter from when I was working as an overnight stocker. I took it to my legs. With one slice my leg was cut wide open, a few more slices and i had bad wounds all over my legs. The first scared me with the fact there was no pain and it opened up like a cut orange, but i couldnt stop. I continued taking the blade to my legs until all was said and done I could finally stoped. I ended up counting my wounds later. After both legs were tallied up, I had over 150 cuts. Too scared to go to the hospital I wrapped my legs in ace bandange and hoped no infections would come.


A few months later, I remember praying to god asking if he was real to let my legs heal. I couldn't wear shorts or a skirt ever again if they didn't heal. Prayed to god back in a new york bathroom. I woke up and my legs were still scared. Four years later, though most of my scars are healed. I still have the worst ones. There are about five scars that im sure will never fade.
I was cutting, after i gave birth as well. After i got arrested and felt like I failed as a mother. I was cheated on and hit. I resorted back to cutting. It went through until finally it snapped one day my daughter will ask me what my scars where from. And i did not want her having to see more than was already there. I stopped cutting with help from a homie.


I tell all this story in direct relevance with a humans limits. Even though I don't cut anymore. It doesn' change the fact when im upset or angry. I sit there with a knife in my hand like a recovering alcoholic with a bottle of alcohol. Debating the pros and cons. I feel I am at my limit again. But with a more mature mind and a will to change my future, I am not sitting here with a knife in my hand but instead a laptop on my bed with someone i love on the phone. Trying to keep my cool and calm, but nothing takes that thought of physical pain out of my head. I never thought of myself as an addict but after writing this and really putting my emotions in words. Im starting to believe i was addicted to phycial pain. It released me from reality, when reality was a place i didnt want to be.


Im determined to keep my head in a place where reality is a place, I not only want to be but desire to be. I want to continue on loving life instead of dreading it. It starts with one step at a time. But I think now is a good time to start making that turn for the better. It starts the 19th.