The Hand with Two Sides: Self-Mutilation and the Constructed Feminine (Essay‪)‬

[1] I can still remember the first time it happened. I was either thirteen or fourteen, I don't know that, but I do know that I was sitting in a chair in the kitchen with my back to the folding doors leading down the long slate hallway. I was somewhere in my first major depressive episode although I lacked the vocabulary to identify it as such. There was a strange moment of clarity amidst the miasma of my angst. It occurred to me that my body was covered with skin, and skin was breakable by tools, and I had the opposable thumbs to use tools. I ferreted through the kitchen looking for a proper instrument, not being brave enough to start out with a knife. I picked up various tools, examining their tips with all the discretion of a wine connoisseur. After poking through drawers, I chose a slim nutpick, precise and seemingly perfect for the task. I began pulling up my shorts, etching into my leg. I watched the way my flesh gave way to a white waxy layer underneath, and I was surprised by how far below the surface my blood seemed. I knew I had to get to the blood, though; it was important that I cut deeply enough that blood became a medium for this oddest of arts. [2] I did not realize that my first date with the nutpick would be the gateway drug into years of razors, knives, wax, whatever means were at my disposal. Looking back, I find it odd that it even occurred to me to cut myself. I had never heard anyone talk about it. I was not sure if I were inventing some new habit. I do not think I even thought about whether cutting myself were a good or bad thing to do, but I knew enough to keep it a secret. I hid my scars under my clothes with the same overwrought determination with which I tucked pictures of boys I liked in the backs of my dresser drawers.