Cutting

It’s one thing to feel sad, and to be upset, and to cry. It’s another thing altogether to confront those feelings. In the absence of being able to properly confront them, sometimes just taking a good long look in the mirror gets the job done.

The other day I did just that. Blood-shot eyes, tear-streaked cheeks, and unshaven chin, I thought long and hard about the person staring back at me. I tried to look into my eyes but it was too painful, and felt unnaturally awkward. So my eyes strayed to my cheeks. I stared at them because there was nothing else to stare at. And I noticed something peculiar – a large, ingrown hair, slinking under my skin. It was nearly completely unnoticeable, but in the absence of anything else to do – that is, except more crying – I felt the urge to rip it out. So I picked, and clawed, and scratched…all to no avail. This just won’t do, I said to myself. I’m a surgeon – I have better ways.

The next day I found an unused disposable scalpel at the hospital. Perfect, I thought. I slipped it in my pocket and hurried home after the day had ended.

I brought my face close to the mirror and strained my eyes to focus on that spot as best I could. I caught a glimpse of those same eyes in the mirror – there were no more tears or blood-red capillaries. Only rage, and obsession. Perhaps this is progress.

I unsheathed the blade and held it up close to my skin, and marveled at the cool steel as it reflected the bathroom light. My eyes were angled such that I was straining to focus the blade and my skin in the mirror – I saw two of everything. I tried to steady my hands against each other and against my face, but they were shaking rather significantly. Not good for a surgeon. I had to focus. I brought the scalpel closer, focused my eyes, and steadied my hands. I let out a long breath.

And I cut.

And then I cut again. And then a few more times. Every stroke took off a little more skin, and shed just a few more blood cells, and came that much closer to exposing that damned ingrown hair. And it burned with every pass. It stung. It was real pain – but it was pain I was controlling. And for a moment – a precious moment – it was all the pain in the world, and all of my pain too. No other pain mattered. And I alone controlled it.

It was finished. The hair was exposed. Out it came, and into the trash went the scalpel. I caught my breath and looked back into the mirror. My eyes were hollow. My face was scared. And I am still alone, though more hideous than ever.