Confessions of a Former Cutter

The first time I cut myself deliberately, I was 14. My parents were downstairs fighting, and I was alone in my dark room. I didn't know how to cope. Some of my friends had talked about cutting. Hoping it would help me deal, I dragged the razor across my skin twice, carving a V. It stood for victim, because that's what I was: a victim of my mother's rage, of torment by my peers, of the world. I felt like my life was nothing.

I immediately felt release. The warm blood flowed gently down my arm, calming me. My frustration was relieved at the price of my arm's former beauty. The pain was immense this first time, but I enjoyed it. It numbed me to everything going on in my life, mind, and heart. The world around me melted away, and there were only me, the blade, and the blood. I was free from everything else, and it felt so good to feel something new.

The next day I wore long sleeves. My boyfriend caught my arm, and I winced. He pulled up my sleeve to discover the wound. My other friends saw, too. I was scolded by my upset friends; some of them were cutters, too. I was also shown sympathy, compassion, and understanding that I so desperately needed. Not only were the solitary moments of pain relieving, but the aftermath was comforting: support, love, help.

I soon got the help for which I was crying out. I told my father that I was depressed, and he didn't believe I could be. My friends told the guidance counselor that they were worried that I'd truly harm myself. I wouldn't have; it wasn't about dying. When she called my father, he believed her. He finally took it seriously. He enrolled me in counseling, and I saw a therapist once a week. I talked to her alone, so I could confide in her. I needed that, too.

I saw a psychiatrist once for a prescription. He asked me if I harmed myself. My father was in the room. I had to lie. I told them that I didn't cut. I also said I sometimes just poked myself with safety pins. I needed the man to know some fraction of the truth. My father was extremely alarmed, shocked, and upset about that so I knew I could say no more.

I was prescribed paxil, and I began to feel a little better. It gave me a false sense of happiness. It made me see the world in a more positive way. But it changed nothing. My mother still abused me, and my parents still fought violently. The police continued to show up a few times a month. Nothing was really improving. The chemicals in my brain were just functioning differently, a temporary fix.

Too many people noticed my arm, so I learned to cut in more discreet places, mainly my leg. Even today my left leg is scarred up and down. I started at the bottom, but that wasn't discreet enough. I eventually moved up to my thigh. Once I even put a long line of deep gashes, maybe 10 of them, in a row. My father saw them once when I wore shorts. I told him I'd fell off my bike onto a rock. I stopped wearing shorts. Even now I don't.

I wore long sleeves until my arm healed. I rarely wore short skirts or shorts. If I did, they were accompanied by high soaks or darkly tanned tights. I could only trust my friends. I knew the rest of the world--especially my parents--wouldn't understand. I was right.

When my father found out he wasn't compassionate. He was angry. He was a logical man, a member of the military. He couldn't comprehend how cutting could be so soothing. His response was to yell, order me to stop, and threaten me--the last things I needed. I just kept lying and hiding the scars.

Even with the medication, I was still battling depression. At night after dinner, as my parents fought downstairs, I sat in my room in the dark listening to the clashes below. I heard objects break and slam against walls. The yelling was so loud. I tried to drown it out with music, but I couldn't always. I'd call as many friends as I could to avoid feeling alone with the chaos.

Eventually everyone had to go, and only the shadows were there to embrace me. Sometimes that was enough to comfort me; I felt at peace in the darkness. Other times, it wasn't. It was then that I would turn to the razor, who had become a friend. Sometimes I only needed to cut once or twice, and other times I would slash my skin over and over. It was like a drug. Sometimes a quick fix would do, but eventually I needed more and more to get the same effect.

I eventually became so accustomed to it that I did it for fun. It became a twisted form of art. I carved my boyfriend's name in my ankle over and over, like a tattoo. Even now it is almost legible, etched there in my skin. To be honest I don't mind that scar as much as the others. It was done for different reasons, for love, for art, maybe a bit out of boredom. It wasn't done for dark reasons.

I began to realize that the feelings caused by the drug paxil were a fake. I wasn't thinking like myself. I needed to be happy because my life was good--not because of a pill. I needed to start dealing with my problems. I stopped taking the paxil and after cutting a final time decided once and for all to never do it again. I had harmed myself enough. So many times I had vowed to stop, but this time I meant it.

My left leg was (and still is) covered in scars when I quit. My arm was less scared but still not very attractive. The scars there are very faint now, barely noticeable. The final thing I carved was "help me" on my lower leg, a final plea for help. I wanted someone to reach out for me and save me, to help me cope, to teach me better. I wanted the world to see how damaged I was. I wanted my body to match my heart.

I don't anymore. Now I hate these ugly scars. They are haunting reminders of a terrible past. They won't let me forget. Each time I see them I am filled with pain, anger, and regret. I try not to look at them. I don't want others to see them. I hide them still. I don't want the world to know how stupid I was.

It pains me to see what a trend this has become. So many young ones, mostly girls, are doing it now. Some do it to be cool or to get attention, like little drama queens. Some have very real problems that they need to deal with but can't yet. I want to tell them they deserve better and owe themselves more. I want to point out that those scars will last for years, show them mine, and tell them how they will hate them one day. I long to help them find other ways to cope. All of that is futile. They will move on when they are ready--hopefully to better things, not drugs or sex.

If I could give any advice to the parent or friend of a cutter, it would be to educate yourself. Don't judge, yell, insult, or threaten. Learn about the illness. Talk to your child. Learn why he or she does this. Understand what your child is feeling and accomplishes by cutting. Show compassion. Most importantly, get your child help. take it seriously. And remember that logic is useless; this is an emotional issue.

Moreover, don't be surprised if you find razor blades stashed away long after you think your child has stopped. Finding them doesn't mean he or she is still cutting. It can be so comforting to a former drug addict to have drugs around, just so they know they are there if they want them. They know if it gets to be too much they have that escape. And they also know that they are being strong enough everyday to say NO to something that is readily available. I know this because I did it. I kept a heart-shaped box of safety pins and razor blades for years after I stopped cutting. It was a relief to know they were there if I needed them. Even today I sometimes wish I had them handy, just to know I have the option if I want it. But I will never cut again.

It was a difficult thing to overcome. The urges haven't stopped completely. I don't know if they ever will. Sometimes when I'm alone at night and having a hard time, I think about cutting. I try to remember what it felt like. I long to drag a blade across my skin. I contemplate a trip to Wal-Mart just to buy one. I think of turning a Bic razor into a tool for self-mutilation. The urges can be very strong, but I have never given into them--not since I was 15.

But I refuse to give in, no matter how bad I hurt or how uncontrollably I'm crying. I deserve better. My family deserves better. And I have to set a better example for my children. I have to teach them better ways of coping. I must be strong for them. I live for my son. He's going to learn enough bad habits from me without adding that to the mix. I will never allow myself to go to that dark place where I must inflict pain upon myself to survive ever again. And if my son ever finds his way there, I will do everything I can to be gentle and compassionate with him--to save him. I hope he never does.

I recently got my navel and nostril pierced. The pain was brief and not very intense, but it reminded me of my cutting days. I was exhilarated! I wanted more. I was like a recovering drug addict that was about to relapse. The high wore off, and the craving died down. I still want my eyebrow and lip done, but I think I'll wait a while. From now on I'm going to stick to letting the professionals 'decorate' my body--with sterilized materials and skilled hands.

I can't tell you why I became a cutter. I was looking for a way to cope. But why I continued to do it is a different story. There were so many reasons: art, boredom, attention, crying out for help, numbing my mental pain, venting my anger and frustration, and calming myself down. Sometimes I felt like I deserved the pain. Other times I wanted to damage myself to show others what they had done to me--to hurt them, to make them understand.

The scars will stay with me for life. I bear them on my skin, heart and mind with a mixture of shame and pride. I am ashamed for what I did and proud of what I overcome. I hope one day the urges will cease, so I can leave this all behind forever. I pray I can continue coping without the blade. And I wish the same for anyone out there who once cut or still does. There is life after cutting.