Turning the Page

To my Fanatical Followers:  Not too long ago I received a final rejection for a book proposal I'd sent to numerous publishers.  I took a downward spiral into a trough that I'm still digging my way out of.  Constant failure and rejection can be a real bummer. 

The book I'd proposed was about the many signs and synchronicities that turn up in my life, and how they've helped me heal and cope with depression.  As required, I'd written several sample chapter/stories to submit in the proposal.  Since the little web you're reading now is  also about signs and includes a number of stories about my history of depression, I've decided to post a couple of the chapters I wrote for the proposal right here.  I'll be damned if I put so much time and effort  into writing all those words and then have them sit unseen in my files.
Unlike the blurbs I write for this little web, which tend to be about stuff that's currently going on with me, the personal essays I wrote for the proposal mostly describe events from the past.  The new-agey/self help book I proposed is autobiographical, so it gets pretty confessional at times.  You have been warned.
Anyway, here goes...

I used to cut myself as a way of releasing “bad blood” from my body, the kind of blood that tainted my soul.  Or so I imagined.  I discovered cutting as a form of self-punishment, or self-improvement, while making half-assed attempts at slicing my wrists with razor blades for the purpose of putting an end to myself.  Obviously I wasn’t successful. That’s got to be the only time I’m glad to have been a complete failure. 
The horrible habit of cutting myself stuck around for a while in the early years of my life as a depressed adult.  The only way I felt I had any power over my feelings was to abuse my body.  I was rendered powerless by brain chemicals running amuck.  When my brain was engaged in chemical warfare, the compulsion to cut was overwhelming, and I almost always succumbed. 
Apart from the masochistic pleasure of feeling myself bleed, cutting was a symbolic act for me. I was fascinated by the way the blood that oozed from the superficial cuts on the inside of my arms formed rows of small, red beads that slowly expanded and then merged together, creating glistening, crimson lines on my skin.  It gave me perverse comfort because it appealed to my sense of drama.  I was a struggling, failing actress - I had to get my drama somewhere.   
Unfortunately, I was expressing the worst part of myself.  But my anger and self-loathing had to be released somehow, and cutting offered me a controlled, albeit disturbed way to get rid of all the emotional crap that was roiling inside me.  Despite the chemical soup of bad hormones that pumped through my body, the actual act of cutting myself was always carefully executed.  I was very focused and determined as I let the bad blood flow into the bathroom sink and watch it go down the drain.  I liked knowing that eventually my ugly feelings would end up in the sewer where they belonged.  It was all so very dramatic, and rife with  symbolism.  When I eventually realized that this demeaning way to punish myself fulfilled my need for drama and ritual, I was hooked.            

I cut slowly and carefully, taking my time between each line that I inscribed unto my flesh.  There was something strangely soothing about it, even a little euphoric. That’s not as sick as it seems.  Scarification, which is a tribal rite of passage in some West African countries, is known to induce a euphoric state in the participants, because the brain naturally releases endorphins to reduce the pain. There’s also the social and communal element of these tribal rituals, which would explain the more pleasurable psychological effects of scarification.  This appealed to my love of ritual drama, too.  Unfortunately, I besmirched the sanctity of my private rites of passage by making sure the temporary high I got from cutting stuck around for a while  by downing a couple of mild tranquilizers with a glass or two of wine.  Then I’d just float about in a semi-stupor while cradling my wounded arm like an infant, which I’d tenderly wrapped in gauze bandages. 
Although I performed this ritual in the privacy of my bathroom, the results of my handiwork were clearly visible for a couple of weeks afterwards.  I once overheard a co-worker at one of my many in-between-gigs-I-never-got jobs say that the inside of my arms looked like corduroy. I usually wore long sleeves for a while after my masochistic rituals, but eventually the fresh wounds turned into puffy, red scars which remained for a long time.  Sooner or later someone was bound to see them. 
My mother first saw my cuts when I was staying at the family cottage.  We were lounging on the dock, spending the day jumping in and out of the lake when she noticed the sore, red welts on my arm.  I heard her gasp and fully expected her to plunge into her mother/nurse role, fussing all over me.  But that’s not what she did.  I saw her suddenly stiffen, her jaw firmly set.  Any maternal instincts were completely absent, because she kicked into denial and a “keeping up appearances” mode.
“That’s disgraceful,” she pronounced with finality. 

My “habit” was never mentioned again.  It was as if it never happened.  In later years, when I indulged in other, more acceptable forms of self-abuse such as excessive drinking and pot smoking, there was never any lack of “discussion” about all my self-medicating.
My cutting days are long gone, and since then I’ve acquired a couple of tattoos, which were applied when I was honouring, rather than lamenting, a rite of passage.  The one on my upper left arm is a butterfly, representing transformation.  Okay, that’s hardly original, but at least it’s attractive.  The one above my right ankle bone is a hummingbird, which I got on the tenth anniversary of my mother’s death. 

On my first visit to the tattoo studio, I was feeling rather smug about how the procedure barely hurt at all, despite dire warnings from seasoned tattoo recipients.  The whole thing didn’t seem much different than going to the hairdressers for a haircut.  While the tattooist and I carried on a casual conversation about nothing in particular, he suddenly asked me, “Do you drink a lot?”
“Uh, I don’t know,” I muttered, a little taken aback.  “It depends on what you consider a lot.  So, uh, why do you ask?”
“You bleed a lot.  Alcohol thins the blood.”
Oh boy.  I just couldn’t get away from it.  There I am, under highly controlled conditions, getting a sign on my body that’s supposed to indicate positive change in my life, and I’m still letting go of bad blood.  So much for keeping my lurid past a secret.  That tattoo took on more meaning than I intended.  But that’s okay.  It’s more interesting that way.            
One of my entirely unintentional self-inflicted scars happened one drunken night a decade and a half ago.  I had spent the evening with a friend who was even more depressed than I was.  Our dysfunctional friendship was based on mutual misery we discovered about each other in a local bar.  Most of our time together was spent enabling each other’s self-destructive habits.  On the night in question I left her place as I always did, unable to remember why I was so miserable, and everything else about my life.  I lived only two short subway stops away, but chose to walk instead.  When I’m sober the walk takes about twenty minutes.  I have no idea how long it took me to get home that night.  But I’m lucky I did.
The next morning I woke up in bed to find the sheets splattered with bright, red blotches.  My left shin was caked in dried blood.  Somewhere between my friend’s place and mine I had come upon a mishap that left a deep, inch-long gouge on my shin, and no doubt lots of my DNA somewhere on the park sidewalk in the west-end of the city.  The scar that remains isn’t pretty, but it’s powerful.

The body is a canvas.  It shows a person’s history, even when it’s being deliberately disguised or covered up.  I look at people’s clothes, makeup, cosmetic surgery, tattoos, and scars (whether deliberately inflicted or not) as markings that hide or enhance personal stories.  Terrible accidents can leave a beautiful soul with physical disfigurement.  Cosmetic surgery can make the normal, natural aging process look like a fake and freakish attempt to maintain one’s youth.   It doesn’t matter whether the story is happy or sad, good or bad, I want to know what it is.  It’s the way I learn compassion and understanding, even for people I don’t like.   
The sad scars that I deliberately put on my skin many years ago are faint and barely noticeable now, and where few people can see them.  But I’m glad some vestige of that painful period of my life remains posted on my body.  They’re reminders of past injuries and lessons learned.  They mark a path I’m never taking again.
So mote it be.
- g.p.