DIFFERENT PEOPLE feel depression differently, and for me, I alternated between periods of sadness so extreme that any other emotion seemed unreal and unattainable and periods where I couldn’t feel any emotion at all. No matter what time it was, nothing could hold my attention, and I had no motivation to do anything that was even remotely human. I wasn’t bothered by it because the nothing weighed me down. It was just a normal thing that I got used to. It felt like the nothingness had always been there, so there was no use taking it away. It was a part of me.
I spent hours staring at the four walls of my room, absently petting the dog if she wandered in for a nap or attention. Thinking back on it, there is nothing to elaborate on, that previous sentence contained what remained of my life, after the new hobby I picked up.
I spent so much time in the days that wafted by while I paid no attention to them, celebrating my ritual of attempting to feel anything. In a very short amount of time, my left arm was circled with the lengthy scabs that were ripped open again and again as I shredded at them until I finally let the battered skin rest and scar over, letting the skin toughen itself against attack while I moved on to fresh skin.
I don’t know when I discovered it, but somehow, I had started cutting my body. I loved every minute of it. It was just as freeing as that single night of drunken stupidity. I yearned for my blades constantly and missed them when I couldn’t be near them.
I started with my thighs. Nobody checks thighs, nobody sees them in winter. Once there was no room left on my legs, I moved on to my arms. I stocked up on long sleeves, at first to disguise my lack of hand, but the sleeves were beautiful and helped me master the art of disguise. I really only cut on one arm, because I couldn’t get at my right arm without a left hand. But soon enough, my arm had its own bracelets etched into place while tally marks danced across my thighs, gathering strength as I kept at it, a small army of depression fighters.
I hid them from prying eyes: wearing full-length jeans—which were a challenge to get on and rubbed mercilessly against the wounds on my legs—and long sleeves that covered my stump of a hand as well, keeping myself pure in the eyes of others. I always thought that if anyone else saw the scars, they would consider it evil. See no evil, hear no evil, do no evil. I was the queen of secrecy. I kept everything about me pure, basking in the glow of unknowledge, which was for the best.
The cutting itself was nice, all of the times I had done it. If my mom went out, and I was home alone, I would blast music, letting the walls vibrate with pure sound, and put on clothes without sleeves. Or I would wait until it was dark and there was literally nothing stirring in the house and my mom was deeply asleep. Every time I pressed my blades to the soft flesh of my arm, drawing it across until droplets of blood spurted to the surface. It never hurt. But for the brief moments while I stared, fascinated by the red liquid that circulated through my body slowly seeping free, I thought that I could feel again, just for a moment.
I was coping. I hadn’t yet come to terms with the situation of my missing hand. But I was making do. It wasn’t the best way to try and feel better, but it was my way, and I felt successful again.