Ray Toro struggles with defeating self-injury
Punishment for all I am not. Punishment for all that I am. Never had I deserved to breathe. Never had I deserved to live. Never had I deserved pleasure, even if I derived the emotion from pain.
Yet, at times I felt as if I did not deserve the amount of torture that I was inflicting upon myself. Although these thoughts were usually shoved to the back of my mind, always forgotten by the time the razor glided across my skin.
The pain received from the blade that I dragged along my flesh was almost unbearable. But the sensation I felt when I viewed the first hint of red made it all worthwhile. Each drop of blood was my suffering. When the red liquid fell onto the floor my misfortune went along. Relief would consume my body and I would be at peace with myself, until the river of red did not flow any longer that is.
If only that amount of relief could last for as long as I desired it to. Perhaps I would bleed forever. Only could I imagine what it would feel like to be drained of all my blood, to feel my lungs give out, to feel my heart beat one final time. To feel these, if only for a moment, I would give away the moon and stars if I ever possessed these great wonders.
To be honest though, the thought of my body empty of all blood frightened me after much consideration. No matter how tempting the idea seemed, at the end of the day the thought of it sent chills up and down my spine. I did not desire a razor blade to be the death of me. It seemed inevitable in a way. It seemed logical that the end of my life would be at the end of a blade. This left me wondering if logic always gained victory in the end.
If I knew one thing for sure, it was that I was not about to wait and discover the answer for myself. I needed to give up cutting, and it needed to be now for I was sure that I did not have much longer.
The razor blade was tucked beneath my mattress, causing my dreams to consist of the metal object that was only layers beneath my body. My fingers twitched at just the thought of feeling the icy blade press against my warm flesh. My healing scars throbbed as I tried desperately to fight the battle of temptation that was raging inside of me.
At times the uphill battle became too much to bear, and I was forced to surrender. Relapse after relapse would occur each time the blade was removed from underneath my mattress. One can lose a battle, but the war has not yet been lost. Battles add up after awhile though. One can only lose so many battles before the enemy wins the war. I was beginning to convince myself that this war would be the death of me. When I hit rock-bottom I was prepared to surrender one final time and lose this war forever.
It was during my darkest moments that I realized that one can only gain victory over an opponent if one can gain victory over themselves. I had to burn myself down in order to build myself back up from my ashes. I allowed myself to hit an ultimate low. When the hole I dug could not be any deeper I proceeded to burn all of what was left of me.
The flames engulfing my body were a type of pain that I had never experienced before. Perhaps the reasoning behind the pain being as excruciating was that I had never truly permitted myself to feel this amount of release before. Cutting had relieved me of the ongoing suffering that consumed both my mind and body, but I was always cautious when the razor touched my skin. Never before did I allow myself to lose control.
But I now permitted myself to get lost in the sea of blood. Time seemed to stand still at that moment. The red liquid kept flowing as I watched in complete awe. Satisfied at last, I forced the sea dry one final time.
Tucked beneath my mattress was the blade once again. Every now and then I would remove the object from underneath my bed and place it in my palm. It was simply a reminder of where I had been and where I was heading.
Many times I considered cutting again. Sometimes I would get as far as placing the blade on my skin. But never did I make that cut, for I did not loathe myself any longer.