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That is, to be powerless.” This appeal mapped largely onto illness: “Sadness and tuberculosis became synonymous,” she writes, and both were coveted.
I’ve got a puckered white blister of tissue on my ankle where a doctor pulled out a maggot.
I’ve got faint lines farther up, at the base of my leg, where I used to cut myself with a razor.
We may have turned the wounded woman into a kind of goddess, romanticized her illness and idealized her suffering, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t happen.
Photography by Robert Mc Keever.)" src="//d1tdv5xoeixo5.cloudfront.net/sites/vqr.virginia.edu/files/styles/large/public/story-images/jamison_01_cmyk.jpg? itok=Ic Fue6cb" alt="Cecily Brown, The Girl Who Had Everything, 1998. Which is the tricky flip side of Sontag’s critique.
” I guess I’m talking about it because it happened.
Photography by Robert Mc Keever.)" width="800" height="725" /he says. And on the other hand, I’m like, Why am I talking about this so much?
Instead, I got so drunk I fell in the middle of Sixth Avenue and scraped all the skin off my knee.
Then you could see it, no T-shirt necessary—see , that bloody bulb under torn jeans, though you couldn’t have known what it meant.
” full of statements to be agreed or disagreed with: Gradations sharpen inside the taboo: Some cut from pain, others for show.
Hating on cutters—or at least these cutter-performers—tries to draw a boundary between authentic and fabricated pain, as if we weren’t all some complicated mix of wounds we can’t let go of and wounds we can’t help, as if choice itself weren’t always some complicated mix of intrinsic character and agency. The answer, I think, is nothing satisfying—we do, and we don’t. I felt like I wanted to cut my skin, and my cutting was an expression of that desire.