I used to cut myself mostly between the ages of 13 to 15.

I would hold a razor in my right hand and press it against the outside middle part of my left forearm, press it harder, harder, and then slowly slide it towards myself, only slightly. Not too fast, not too long. I would feel heat, rather than pain, and watch a short, thin red line of blood appear on my skin. I wouldn't bleed much, in fact I wouldn't want to because that might stain my clothes or sheets. I would wipe it off with tissue until I stop bleeding. The heat would stay there for a while, constantly telling me that I was wounded. For I couldn't ignore it, I had to acknowledge it. But it always turned into warmth and slight soreness, and then into a reddish-brown scab.

I repeated this process countless times, and I healed every time. I felt a little tougher each time I healed from those wounds. When I was focusing on my physical pain, I was able to get away from my emotional pain, at least for a while. So I consciously converted my heartache to those razor wounds, carefully calculating how the scars would look later. When they healed, I felt like my heart has also somewhat healed along with them. I felt alive, because I was feeling pain. I felt alive, because I was healing. The wounds and scars were the symbol of my survival and resilience. Thus I attempted to gain control of my life by curing them one by one, while branding my troubled adolescence onto my memory and my left arm.

I still carry around at least 13 visible scars today. I can see them as I'm typing this. Since I don't hide them, over the years people have asked me what happened. A middle school teacher spotted them and told me not to hurt my own body that I "got from [my] parents." I got so offended and just walked away. Some kids I was teaching swimming asked what they were, and I lied to them that I had a very aggressive cat. Some of my friends have asked me the same question, and I didn't lie, but I couldn't fully explain why I did it, nor could they understand it.

Why did I do it? Perhaps because I knew some people who were similarly hurting themselves at that time, with knives, safety pins, or cigarettes. Perhaps because my favorite singer was doing it, too. I don't really know why. But one thing I know for sure is that I had to do it. Was it a healthy practice? Not really. But what kind of a Queer adolescent knows that she or he has any options or alternatives at all, other than killing themselves?

My experience tells me that, generally, those who don't hurt themselves don't understand those who do. And many of them actually take pity or feel entitled to tell us not to do it. I always feel stupefied in such occasions. "Oh, not again," I say to myself and shut down. I have no regrets and am proud of my survival and resilience.

For some people, the role of my razor is played by alcohol, cigarettes, drugs, food, "unprotected" sex, abusive relationships, or violence on others or things. For others, it's dancing, painting, singing, running, or writing. What's the difference? Healthy or not? I find it difficult to distinguish them because when our hearts, minds, and souls are not healthy, so-called physical health could become a secondary concern. We can't be fully healthy without all parts of us being healthy. And here I don't mean "healthy" in an ableist sense, like the expression, "functioning" --it's more about whether we love and take pride in ourselves, all parts of our existence, including our past, present and future. It's about compassion and hope.

Today, when the institution of medicine forcibly separates the mind and the body, it's super hard to be fully healthy because physical pain and emotional pain are transposable (that's why I cut myself or get depressed when I'm hungry). And when our society forcibly separates the individual from the community, it's super hard to even recognize that our community is in pain.

Our community is in pain, more than obviously, because we've been hearing about suicides of Queer youths lately like every day. I mean, it's no doubt happening every day around the world, and sadly, it has always been. I am tired of feeling disheartened yet useless. What can I do as an openly Queer writer? Maybe, I thought, I can share my experience, in addition to spreading the word about the amazing It Gets Better Project.

Even though I was hurting myself, I never thought of taking my own life. The situation is a little different because I grew up in Japan, where no one would even question your sexuality, for heterosexuality is compulsory. In fact, I have never been bullied for being Queer since I wasn't out or too deviant from gender norms. Neither have I even been depressed because of my sexuality as I knew there would be a community out there that would one day welcome and embrace me with open arms. It's a community less accessible to youth, and it's also not so easy for adults to reach out to Queer youth in struggle because of institutionalized homophobia that obscures our visibility, displaces Queer-friendly teachers and school staff, removes relevant books from the library, and prevents Queer subjects and materials to be taught in class. But if I can possibly reach out to my younger brothers and sisters, I want them to know that there is a community, whether or not they're out, even if they're Queer and youth of color. I can't easily promise them that it gets better, but I want them to trust me, that they can make it better. Community is a verb, just like peace is, and if we don't find a community, we must create one on our own. Otherwise, we will lose. I will keep doing my part, feeling my way through our collective struggle to alleviate the pain of our community, and I want you, my friends, to do your part, too, by first knowing what's going on. Healing process can begin only when we acknowledge the pain.



(This post is dedicated to all Queer youths in the world who took their own lives.)