The Stash

From about the age of fourteen until four years ago, I was a cutter. I didn't know at the time that it was actually a documented coping mechanism until a couple of years ago. I thought I was just weird.

At least twice, sometimes as many as five times a week (during exam time), usually after a particularly stressful day, I'd lock myself in the bathroom where I'd spend the next ten minutes drawing a double-edged razor blade across the backs of my forearms, and the subsequent ten minutes disinfecting and dressing the fresh cuts. You'd be surprised how well thought-out and ritualized it was. I'd make long, parrallel, evenly-spaced cuts on the back of one forearm, then I'd quickly disinfect and dress them. I'd taken a course in advanced first aid so that I knew how to effectively dress the cuts; I studied my biology textbook so that I'd know exactly where to cut so that blood loss would be minimal; I knew exactly how deep I could cut without leaving a scar; I kept a bottle of isopropyl alcohol in the bottom drawer of my desk so that the blade could be sterilized before I used it; and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide to disinfect the cuts afterwards; I cornered the market in ibuprophen to keep inflammation around the cuts under control; I'd alternate between arms to give one arm time to heal while I'd cut on the other. Never let it be said that I didn't think this through down to the last detail. I got good at hiding it, too. One of the advantages of living in the Great White North is that nobody really considers it weird if you're wearing long sleeves in the middle of the summer. This was my ritual from about halfway through grade eight until the end of High School, then I stopped for three while I was in college; and started again during my last year. I managed to kick the habit just before I graduated; and in the middle of March, I'll hit four laceration-free years; which will make the longest time I've gone without hurting myself since I started.

You wouldn't think it, frankly, I'm not sure I understand it completely, but cutting is an incredibly addictive behaviour. It's a coping mechanism. I'd have a bad day, my life would seem to be spinning out of control, and I'd be reaching for my trusty razor blade the same way some people reach for a pack of cigarettes; I had my favorite brand of double-edged razor blade, the same way some people have their favorite brand of cigarette. Being me, I couldn't pick a "normal" unhealthy coping mechnism like getting stoned. I'm probably one of maybe six students who graduated from Bishop's University never having smoked pot (second-hand pot smoke notwithstanding; you walk through the pub at Bishop's on Halloween, and you're stoned), believe it or not. Actually, the idea of taking drugs scared the bajesus out of me. Yep, I was terrified of smoking pot or shooting up, but taking a razor blade to myself seemed perfectly sensible (if you can figure that one out, you're a lot smarter than I am). For maybe twenty minutes, I felt as if I had some control over my life. Physical pain is the easy kind, I guess. The pain gave me something to focus on; the cuts gave me something to do; something that I had to deal with. Cutting was something that I was in control of (or it was in control of me; to this day, I'm not sure which). Plus razors were cheaper than pot.

I think I knew I was addicted; I often half-jokingly referred to the pharmacy as my "dealer." I'm one of those people who needs to shave often, so nobody considered it weird when that I always had a large supply of double-edged razor blades; and nobody really noticed that I didn't actually own a razor that used double-edged razor blades. As far as I know, even the young woman I dated during my time at Bishop's never suspected anything; or if she did, she never said anything about it (this isn't any fault of hers; I managed to keep the habit under control for most of the time we were dating until about the last four months we were together; and for those last four months, she was never in a position to notice). She did, however, notice that I avoided going to the doctor like the plague. I don't think she knew why, though. Nobody at all seemed to notice that I suddenly stopped wearing short sleeves altogether; even when it was warm out.

So why, after four lacerationless years, am I writing about it now? Well, I was going through some of the boxes I have in the basement of my old Bishop's Memorabilia. There, near the bottom of the box, as if they'd been waiting for me all along, was a half-empty package of Merkur double-edged razor blades, and an almost-empty bottle of isopropyl alcohol. Digging a little deeper, I found two unopened gauze bandages, a couple of 4"x4" sterile gauze pads, and about half a roll of surgical tape. I guess I'd thrown out the bottle of hydrogen peroxide, because I never found it.

My stash.

I don't know why I kept it when I left Bishop's. Maybe I thought I'd need them again someday, maybe I wanted them around as a security blanket or something.

Maybe I didn't think that I could really quit. I don't know, really.

The garbage man picked it up with the rest of the trash on Thursday.