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Nov. 8th, 2004

It's been a long time since I last cut. I don't know how long. I've never bothered counting the days or weeks or months, and always discounted notions such as *clean* or *SI free* because I never felt tainted or oppressed by SI in the first place.

It was something I did because self-inflicted physical pain seemed like a damn better deal than the uncontrollable emotional pain I didn't know how to fix. I did it because I was trying to survive, because for a long time it was the only tool I had, the only language my pain spoke, the only thing that stood between me and implosion.

I've never felt guilt or remorse, or shame about hurting myself. I was always very clear on why I was doing it and I never felt like a weak or bad person because of it. Never thought I failed something or someone by cutting, because I knew I was a strong, resourceful person surviving.

I'm terrible with dates, with pinpointing events in time and space but I tend to remember the events themselves with great clarity. Such as A phonecall of rage. And then picking up the nearest fragile breakable thing to throw, and how from that moment it seems that everything from throwing it, watching it sail and shatter with loud perfection against the wall, to slashing my palm on a shard, it all seemed bound in this intricate dance.

There are moments when I still miss it. I miss the notion of smashing my fist against the wall, I miss the release of it. It was such an easy way of venting rage, the bitter grief that built and hid under the skin.

And when I run into someone who has a spiderwork of raised and callused skin on their inner arm, or the straight, raised scarrs across their upper arms I think and I feel a glimmer of dark, wry amusement (I expect the bleak humour endemic to the Yugs) because I know exactly what I'm looking at, that I'm seeing a signature as distinctive as a brand.

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