I have written several versions of this post in the last few weeks, all of them ended up in the recycle bin because I couldn't stop them from sounding dramatic and it always seemed like I was fishing for something like sympathy or - I don't even know. But I have felt like it's a story worth sharing, maybe because someone out there can relate or because someone in the vastness of cyberspace needs to be clued in to what's going on under their nose. Or maybe just as an explanation as to why I am the way I am. That's it. That's why I'm putting this out there and I'm going to attempt to make it very matter-of-fact. (And I'm closing the comments.)
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For a very brief period of time in my teenage years, I was a cutter.
I look at that word now and it gives this impression of doing something trendy. Like, "Oh, she's a cutter. Cool. I tried that once, it was no big deal." Well, let me tell you, it's a dark thing. The first time I did it, I was not thinking about showing anyone how daring and jaded I was and I certainly hadn't thought of it as something that might get me attention.
Cutting was instinctual. I didn't know there was a name for it or that other people did it. It just happened. I saw the pair of scissors on my nightstand on that first occasion, and I picked them up almost without thinking about what I was going to do with them. They had hot pink handles. I opened them as far as they would go and drug them across the flesh on my thighs, making shallow cuts in straight rows. With each slice of my skin, some of the pain that was filling me seemed to escape through those cracks until the physical pain drowned out the emotional pain. It was almost like opening the cap on a bottle of soda pop that's been shaken. All the pressure just fizzles out and you're left feeling relief. Calmer. A little numb.
I always kept the cuts where no one would see them, usually on my upper thighs. I wasn't much for short shorts. I don't know exactly how long I did this, but it was long enough that it became a little addicting. After a while, it would take less to push me to do it.
I suppose that everyone who has cut does it for different reasons, but we're all looking for the same result. We want to feel better. It's as simple as that.
Usually, I would cut when I felt like I didn't matter. Let's be clear that I was never suicidal; I essentially liked my life and was content in most things. I just wished that my life meant more or was worth more than I gave myself credit for.
I know now that those are just typical teenage feelings that were authentic, but they were not founded on fact. Growing up is hard and in some ways I handled it poorly. Today, I don't understand why I felt the way I did. I had amazing parents who were fun and loving and even disciplined in a way that let me know that it was done out of love and the worst part of any punishment was knowing that I had disappointed them. Okay, that's not exactly true. I do remember the reasons that I felt like an outsider. Some of them were unwarranted, but others were entirely valid. But I know that no one ever intended to make me feel the way I did.
My childhood makes the cutting all the more bizarre because I grew up in a stable home where love abounded and everything was normal. Except me, perhaps. But it goes to show that this kind of thing can happen anywhere, and no one should feel like everything in their world is safe and happy and perfect, unless they know for a fact that it is. And how can you? Have you asked? How well do you really know your friends or your children or your neighbors?
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For me, time passed and I knew I needed help. I didn't know how else to sound the alarm, so one day I cut my arms. Someone would see them and then we'd talk.
And talk we did. I found myself in a psychiatrist's office within hours of my dad confronting me about the cuts and that was nothing short of a disaster. I'm not sure where that doctor got his degree, but I'm pretty sure it was a mail order thing because I played him like a fiddle. All I had to do was give him the answers that fit the conclusions he had already come to. I didn't want to talk to him about it, I wanted to talk to someone who knew me and cared about me. The shrink, for some reason, assumed my cutting was about anger. He was wrong. It was entirely about self-worth.
After that visit I made a deal with my dad. If I never cut again, he would never make me go back to that psychologist. I don't remember any of us ever talking about it again.
The reality is that my history is made up of much more than just this cutting phase, but I still see pieces of how those feelings shaped me in the way I behave today. I do things and say things just to be included or to get a reaction or to shock people. I don't want anyone to forget I'm there, and I want them to like me. Maybe it seems ridiculous, but there it is.
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Recently I've heard my son say that sometimes he is tempted to touch the stove burners when they are turned on or to let go of the branch he's holding when he's climbed to the top of a tree. Those statements put me on alert. Another of my kids is in the habit of shouting that nobody loves him whenever he gets punished or sent to his room. More reminders to be very, very close to my kids. I want to know everything about them and how they feel about everything and what makes them sad and happy and everything in between.
I don't ever want my children to wonder what the world would be like without them in it and decide that it would be exactly the same because no one needs them anyway. I live in fear of one of my kids thinking that they are less important or less loved than their siblings. Because I know, I remember, how those thoughts can plague a person until they can't believe anything else.
So pay close attention to the people in your life, because everyone will struggle in some way at some point. Be ready to come to their rescue.
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