home *** CD-ROM | disk | FTP | other *** search
- Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
- Path: sparky!uunet!zaphod.mps.ohio-state.edu!caen!umeecs!umn.edu!csus.edu!netcom.com!cliftonr
- From: cliftonr@netcom.com (Pope Clifton)
- Subject: Sharp edges
- Message-ID: <1993Jan12.225922.26189@netcom.com>
- Summary: May be disturbing to younger viewers
- Keywords: knives, bad thoughts
- Organization: Inst. for Epistemological Pathology
- X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.1 PL8]
- Date: Tue, 12 Jan 1993 22:59:22 GMT
- Lines: 55
-
- I used to fantasize about cutting my hands when I was depressed.
-
- Fantasize is certainly the wrong word, but I know none closer. I was
- fascinated -- like the bird by the snake. I was enchanted -- like the
- snake by the charmer. I was obsessed -- like a fetichist with his
- worship. I don't know if there is a word strong enough for such a
- feeling. Depressed, I would lie curled up in fetal position, struggling
- with all my Will to push back the other will -- my own -- to injure
- myself. The struggle would exhaust me, leave me debilitated, half
- catatonic, unable to communicate.
-
- It was always hands or arms, for me. Perhaps we identify our hands with
- our ability to act in the world. When all acts seem evil and worthless,
- it is our hands which are at fault. Our hands must be washed clean, or
- punished.
-
- It was always cutting, for me. For some, fire; for others, caustics, or
- tearing. For me, the clean cut holds fascination. I could nearly feel
- the clean straight bite of a sharp shining blade, how it would slice
- deeper into my flesh as I drew its edge along the chosen spot.
-
- I imagined: Never the fool's cut -- crossways across the inner wrist,
- ruining the tendons, making cuts in the veins that will clot and close
- almost as soon they form. Perhaps between the fingers, slowly but
- firmly splitting my hand down to the base of the palm. More often
- between the thumb and the first finger, sawing through the great web of
- muscle which makes us the toolmakers that we are. Perhaps driving the
- point through the back of my forearm, or wrist, with my weight behind
- it. When I yearned to lose blood, a slow precise probe with the point,
- delicately exposing and splitting lengthwise the great veins along the
- inner wrist and forearm.
-
- Sometimes when I was not depressed I would flirt with it, toying with a
- knife, pressing the edge ever so gently against the back of my arm,
- trying the newly sharpened blade on the base of my thumb. Over time I
- learned to bring a knife to a razor-like edge, so that I could dry-shave
- hairs off the back of my arm with a gentle stroke. When I was
- depressed, I kept the knives well away from myself, except when I needed
- to use them in cooking or for practical purposes. Somehow they never
- held a threat then; how could I feel a sinister fascination for
- something I was chopping carrots or opening a box with? I never did try
- to cut myself; my safety interlocks held firm.
-
- I don't dream this any more. Over 10 years, or 20 years, it has faded.
- My knives are my friends now, my tools, my servants. Even in pain, I no
- longer wish Pain. My will is my own.
-
- I have a new dream now; I will tell it to you one day.
-
- -- Clifton
-
- --
- cliftonr@netcom.com Home: +1 808 521 9073 Work: +1 808 625 3234
- Clifton Royston, Pope of the Church of the Subgenius in Paradise
- - Dissecting personal psychopathology at the edge of the 20th century -
-