Raz
Bluelighter
I saw a boy in the street today with a long Matrix-style PVC coat that whipped around his ankles. He had freckled skin and tight curls of red hair; not your typical goth or even wannabe goth, but there he was.
He wore a contorted expression, a mixture of anger and sadness and wanting to hurt himself and others and really just wanting someone to take the pain away, and I remembered that tired old cliche from the many times it has worn me over the years. There was a lot of confused displaced rage in him (confused displaced rage being something I have known quite well and find sometimes uncomfortable to recognise in others or myself).
His coat was sleeveless, and as he paced back and forth the length of the tram stop and the street beyond it, I noticed cuts in his arms. Not many fresh ones, but they were there. And I recognised those looks he was getting from men in business suits and women with groceries; those looks of distrust and fear and pity. Always distrust and fear and pity.
It reminded me of when I wore cuts upon my arms instead of scars and when I thought that nobody knew; when really everybody knew, but nobody knew how to say it. I remember before they knew, refusing to pull back my sleeves in the hottest weather and people thinking that strange. I remember when I wanted them to know, and I wore singlets that made my red lines some angry slap to the face. I wanted them to confront me. I wanted them to see what I had done. At the time I remember clearly thinking, and writing in my diary to be immortalised in print, I want them to see what they have done to me. And that all sounds so trite and even corny now, but at the time it meant something. It really meant something.
Then along came HIV.
I have only cut myself once since I found out I am HIV positive. When I did it, I watched my blood with some kind of frightened awe. I imagined the virus breeding and changing that blood with each passing second, and it seemed somehow different to me then. My blood seemed something to be afraid of. I remember showering and washing my clothes and my sheets, and making damn sure that there was no way anybody could come into contact with even the most inert particle of scab, because my blood had become something to fear.
I don't cut myself anymore.
I have learned to never say never; the world takes us on a journey which never ends and has many hills and valleys, and only a stupid man says he knows what is ahead of him on that road. I am many things, but I am not a stupid man. But right now, I don't cut myself anymore.
I don't know what people will take from this, what assumptions will be made on my state of mind or wellbeing. I know that there is a part of this that only other cutters will understand, that strange sense of loss I have now which is daunting but not altogether unwelcome; that blood on my skin can no longer help me.
In its place though, I have found strength. I have found light that doesn't make me cry. I have found ways to like myself and to be proud of myself and I have to admit that while I have always preached living a life without fear, this fear has been healthy for me. This fear has taught me that I can't rely on that habitual bloodletting for cathartic release and that I have to live. This fear has taught me that my blood may betray me, but my spine and my heart and my brain will not. I am strong and I am worthy and I am intelligent and I never really believed that when there was a razor too close. I believe that now.
In closing, I want to say thanks for reading this far if you have done so. This has been very therapeutic for me, and I feel that something great and heavy has been lifted from me in enunciating this feeling which has hovered around me nameless for so many months. There is power in the naming of things.
For the first time in my life I feel powerful.
He wore a contorted expression, a mixture of anger and sadness and wanting to hurt himself and others and really just wanting someone to take the pain away, and I remembered that tired old cliche from the many times it has worn me over the years. There was a lot of confused displaced rage in him (confused displaced rage being something I have known quite well and find sometimes uncomfortable to recognise in others or myself).
His coat was sleeveless, and as he paced back and forth the length of the tram stop and the street beyond it, I noticed cuts in his arms. Not many fresh ones, but they were there. And I recognised those looks he was getting from men in business suits and women with groceries; those looks of distrust and fear and pity. Always distrust and fear and pity.
It reminded me of when I wore cuts upon my arms instead of scars and when I thought that nobody knew; when really everybody knew, but nobody knew how to say it. I remember before they knew, refusing to pull back my sleeves in the hottest weather and people thinking that strange. I remember when I wanted them to know, and I wore singlets that made my red lines some angry slap to the face. I wanted them to confront me. I wanted them to see what I had done. At the time I remember clearly thinking, and writing in my diary to be immortalised in print, I want them to see what they have done to me. And that all sounds so trite and even corny now, but at the time it meant something. It really meant something.
Then along came HIV.
I have only cut myself once since I found out I am HIV positive. When I did it, I watched my blood with some kind of frightened awe. I imagined the virus breeding and changing that blood with each passing second, and it seemed somehow different to me then. My blood seemed something to be afraid of. I remember showering and washing my clothes and my sheets, and making damn sure that there was no way anybody could come into contact with even the most inert particle of scab, because my blood had become something to fear.
I don't cut myself anymore.
I have learned to never say never; the world takes us on a journey which never ends and has many hills and valleys, and only a stupid man says he knows what is ahead of him on that road. I am many things, but I am not a stupid man. But right now, I don't cut myself anymore.
I don't know what people will take from this, what assumptions will be made on my state of mind or wellbeing. I know that there is a part of this that only other cutters will understand, that strange sense of loss I have now which is daunting but not altogether unwelcome; that blood on my skin can no longer help me.
In its place though, I have found strength. I have found light that doesn't make me cry. I have found ways to like myself and to be proud of myself and I have to admit that while I have always preached living a life without fear, this fear has been healthy for me. This fear has taught me that I can't rely on that habitual bloodletting for cathartic release and that I have to live. This fear has taught me that my blood may betray me, but my spine and my heart and my brain will not. I am strong and I am worthy and I am intelligent and I never really believed that when there was a razor too close. I believe that now.
In closing, I want to say thanks for reading this far if you have done so. This has been very therapeutic for me, and I feel that something great and heavy has been lifted from me in enunciating this feeling which has hovered around me nameless for so many months. There is power in the naming of things.
For the first time in my life I feel powerful.
