Oktober

After Oktober was gone I learned a new habit (which thank God I managed to find a way to get rid of years later, thank God, thank God, thank God...) AMEN.

I started cutting. Usually in places people couldn't see...usually not that deep...I was not a real cutter I was an attention seeker about it perhaps, I told myself I liked the feel of it, the "rush", but who knows what it was that I liked, I don't remember cutting except for one time and it was the only time that I still have the scars from...the day of the "Broken Glass".

I smashed a glass jar, grabbed a nice pointed shard, went to the bedroom, got on my knees, and just started...started slashing the right side of my upper thigh, SLASHING like a mad man. I made sure to dig deep into the skin that time, made sure I got something "good" out of it, something I could remember, something people could see, something that was really going to BLEED, something that says, "Hey! Look!! Look at me!!! I really do not GIVE A FUCK!!!! Now, WATCH ME!!!!!" Yeah the scars are great because I didn't get stitches so they healed bright white and wide, three nice visible ones, they look like an animal strike. I used to tell new boyfriends that it was from an "accident". That wasn't entirely a lie.

Oktober, her Father, the guy I was dating at the time: He was sick of the cutting. He was sympathetic at first, but after awhile he simply ignored it, became numb (he was fucked up from the loss also), and the day of the broken glass he was in the bedroom. Half sleeping, half awake, and fully indifferent - did not even budge to the SMASH of the glass to the SLASH to the BLOOD to the HEARTACHE. Then one day we were arguing as usual (all we did was scream, argue, and aggressively and violently fight after Oktober died). We were ridden with demons, with malice, with trauma, with anger, with sorrow, with horror, with EVERYTHING. His parents tried to convince me to seek a Priest for Confession to help me, they honestly tried. I refused and rebutted, cursed and spit words of disdain for the Church, for the Catholics, for the Confession...

"WHY WOULD I NEED TO GO SEEK A MAN TO CONFESS TO THAT IS NOT GOD?!"

Go figure, I am Catholic now and confirmed, and I would not have it any other way. The same exact words I tried to exile them with the masses speak to me now. The mirror is something not to be taken lightly. The tongue. The words. The projection. The intention.

Traumatic Bonding is a real thing.

We stayed in bed a lot, we used a lot of drugs, we had a lot of hugs... He just couldn't take it anymore, the cutting, and then one day during an argument I threatened to cut myself again then he instinctively and spontaneously reached over for an orange box cutter. The box cutter was in a pen holder on my computer desk, I used it for projects in Art school.

"Oh, you want to cut yourself?!

I'll fucking cut you!!!"

There are some memories in life that cannot be explained no matter how hard I try. We both saw it with our own two eyes. The blade on the box cutter was fully retracted when he grabbed it. He grabbed it and swiped down the front of my left forearm, it happened so quickly and I did not feel anything at all, there was no pain from the incident whatsoever, at least from what I remember.

The cut was DEEP and blood must have rushed out of it (but I don't remember any blood) because he became frozen and so did I. He just looked at me, and I looked at him, and we looked at the cut, and we looked at the Retracto blade or Retrakto knife (who knows anything anymore?!) and both of us were so shocked all I remember is a lost moment in time...both of us...completely immobilized. After awhile he sputtered something along the lines,

"I - I'm sorry I didn't realize, I thought it was closed. I didn't mean to do that".

I nodded my head, my eyes still wide, my breathing heavy, “I know....I know...". We examined the box cutter, and out from the edge of the orange plastic tip the tiniest bit of a metallic blade was exposed, barely a sliver of an inch. At the time and moving forward we both accepted that THAT was how it happened. That a tiny bit of the blade sticking out was all that was needed to create a deep GASH in my left arm that took months to heal and became a thick raised, red and purple Keloid scar that seemed to change colors and transform in shape throughout the years. The scar was monstrous, ran down my whole entire arm, and I was always ashamed to have it exposed - always covering up with long sleeves, always making sure that it wasn't visible at a job interview or something important where impressions made a difference to society. The thing defined me after awhile, put me in a category, forced me to become one of those, one of the "Others".

"Wow, how'd you get that scar on your arm?"

...TO BE CONTINUED to "I killed my first child. Part II"