Cutting [my one true story] Part 1

One of my favorite books ever is Impulse by Ellen Hopkins. Impulse is different from my other favorites. Impulse is different because of the character Vanessa. Vanessa is a teen girl who tried to commit suicide by slitting her wrists. This is not the part I relate to. The part that I relate to is her cutting; her self-mutilation. I am a recovering cutter. Just like with alcoholism, one is always recovering and never truly recovered.

The urge to cut is always there on the back of my mind. Even when I don’t notice it’s there. There will always be a chance that something will happen that will make me not just want to cut again, but that will actually push me to cut again. I know, that the bad things that happen in my life don’t make me cut. They do, however, push me to feel those emotions [anger, sorrow, depression, loneliness, etc.] that do push me to cut. Part of me always wants to use cutting as a way to deal. I don’t like to cry. I’ve always felt that it’s a sign of weakness. But, that is just so NOT true. Crying is good for you, sometimes. So, is talking.

I do not use cutting as a way to try to kill myself. I have to urge to commit suicide. Okay, that’s not completely true. I have had the urge, but it was fleeting. I have thought about it on more than one occasion, but not seriously. Suicide is too final for me. Cutting is my way of dealing with things.

I’ve always felt uncomfortable sharing my feelings and talking about things that anger me. [or hurt me, make me sad, make me feel worthless, etc.] I’ve always kept things bottled up. I’d bury all the bad emotions, and put on a happy face. Some people saw through the fake, painted-on smiles, but most people didn’t. So, I kept everything in. I didn’t let anyone see how I really felt. I didn’t always cut, though. [obviously] I started cutting in April of 2006. From November 11, 2007 until October 2008 I was cut-free. You see, I didn’t cut all the time. I’d cut for a few weeks, then stop for a month or so and then pick it back up. I let things stew under the surface. Then, when I just couldn’t hold it in anymore, I’d let it out the only way I knew how. I’d bleed it out.

The crimson dots that would slowing rise and then becoming a slow, steady flow always amazed. And, I lived for the metallic taste that the first cut would put in my mouth. I was addicted to it. It was the only way to let out the pain. [and the anger, sorrow, etc] There were just so many emotions & so many thoughts swirling around inside me that I just couldn’t control it. I didn’t know what to do.

As I said before, crying was not an option. Crying was a sign of weakness. Talking? Forget about it. Talking to Mom just made things worse. She wanted to know everything, which was more than I was willing to tell her. And, she has a nack for making me feel stupid. She doesn’t mean to do it, but she does. Talking to Dad was out. We barey spoke about the non-serious things, would he really want to sit down and discuss my feelings? Of course not. And, besides he had the other kids to worry about. The little cute ones that were fun to make laugh, and the oldest son that could do no wrong. Where did that leave me?? The daughter that was too old to laugh when you stole her nose, but too young to talk to about real stuff. I was (at least it felt like it) the least favorite. Talking to friends?? No way. They wouldn’t understand. If I voiced my occasional thought of ‘maybe it’d be better if I just ended it all’ they’d freak! They’d think I was some kind of lunatic. The step-mom was a maybe. And, I did talk to her some, but at that point I still felt uncomfortable about it. [she's now one of my favorite people ever & my only adult confidant]

I remember the first time I cut. I used a safety pin. It didn’t bleed, of course, which is just as well. I probably would have pissed myself. I was just trying it out; I had no idea whether it would help or not. I was surprised when it actually made me feel better. At least, for a little while. Then, safety pins started to not be enough. I was cutting deeper, but there was still no blood.

My first blade was off of a hand-held pencil sharpener. I took the screw out with a bobby-pin and trashed everything but the blade. I remember holding it in my hand and looking at it for a long time. It was so shiny, and so freakin’ small. But, it was sharp & that’s all that I cared about. It was SHARP.

The blood didn’t scare me like I thought it would. And, that scared me. I should have freaked out. I should have been panicked, and trying to stop the bleeding. But, I just stared at the bead of blood as it slowly ran down my wrist and onto my hand.

I got sloppy, though. I stopped trying as hard to hide the cuts and the scars. People started to notice. But no one did anything for a long time.

When, my two best guy friends [my church buddies ] saw the cuts, they freaked. Dillon lectured and then David lectured and then Dillon lectured and then David lectured. Then, they started telling how important I was to them and how much they cared about me. They said I was too good to be doing that to myself, and they told me how stupid I was. I was stunned. I didn’t know what to say. I argued, I remember that, but I don’t remember what I said. I gave them lame excuses, but no real reasons for what I was doing to myself.

Dillon checked for new cuts almost every time I saw him. That helped me stop. For a little while. Then, I did it. He asked if there were any new cuts and I said no. That was the first time I ever lied to Dillon and he knew I was lying, too. We both did. He told me to show him, and when I did, I couldn’t look at him.

But, my grandma is telling me to get off the computer, so I’ll have to continue this later. Part 2 will follow soon.

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