WARNING:

If you are a cutter, please be sure you are in a SAFE place when looking at this site. Even though you may be okay now, it may give you the desire to cut.
I know just writing it made me want to.

I'M BACK!

Many of you may remember me from my old website www.angelfire.com/ks/Cutters/index.html but I'm trying to move that over here.

Yes, that website (pre-blog) left off pretty dismally, but I'm still alive and kicking 5 years later! (With many trials & tribulations in between. I hope we'll all be able to catch up here!

Thanks for all your support of the years, it has been absolutely invaluable.

Saturday, September 22, 2001

September 22, 2001

Okay. Let me explain something. When I ask for help, I need help. I rarely let this thing out of me. So when I’m hurting so bad that I can’t take it any more. I really really cry for help. It’s like standing on the top of a mountain with a bull horn. Screaming ‘hello don’t you fucking people see me.’ ‘can’t you hear me?’ I’m the master at subtle hints. And some not so subtle hints. But those times when I really lose it. The times when I’m more insane than sane, that’s when you might just be able to get inside. I might let you see what’s in there. But you have to remain calm. You have to relax. If I’m freaking out, and the person I go to freaks out. It’s not going to do either one of us any good. If everyone panics -- you all lose. But if everyone stays calm and just one person panics, the rest of you sane people can probably calm that person.

When I am suicidal you are looking directly at the inside of me. Right into the center of me. but if you start freaking out and calling me 82 times a day, showing up at my doorstep, and calling my parents and getting them involved, as soon as any of this panic starts to happen. I go into defense mode. I immediatly stuff everything into a box and seal it. Then the box goes into a safe, and I lock it, then the safe goes into the valut and the door is closed for good. and BOOM ----You miss your opportunity. “sorry folks better luck next time.” “but we have a lovely parting gift for you, bob - go ahead and tell them what they’ve won.”

You’ve created a person who hates you. Because for a split second you all became just as insane as I was, and I can’t handle that. So when’s the next time the walls go down and the vault gets opened and the box is unsealed? Probably not for a long time. Maybe never. Because I’ll remember how everyone acted. And as sick as I am right now, because I am feeling such imense pain, when you all act like that it makes me sicker.

And you all are probably thinking...what the hell does she want...we ignore her, she gets upset...we try and help, she gets upset. And if you don’t understand right now, why I’m upset... then I’m sorry --- you don’t get it...better luck next time...but I can’t help you. I can’t help youme...I need to help me help me right now. help

Everyone in my life has always just given up on me. That’s why i don’t tell very mnay people about this hting living inside of me. +At first I’m just a pet project to them. They ask, they care...they want to know everything. Why? Because it makes them feel good to think ‘ wow i’m helping someone...oh god maybe i’m even saving her life.’ it makes them feel great. so this goes on and on and on. And eventually a few months later...they get restless. The shimmer of the madness has worn off. And it’s just me sad tired and drepressed. The curosity about mental illnes has left them...and now they are just left with me. ‘passenger’s please fasten your seatbelts...we’re in for a bumpy ride.’ and they start screaming ‘no...stop the ride...i want to get off!’ and they do...and the ride goes on with out them.

September 30, 2001

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September 21, 2001 (later)

I've never been so far away from okay in my life. I've really lost it: gone off the deep end. I need help. I seriously need to check myself into a hospital.

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Friday, September 21, 2001

September 21, 2001

I am extremly suicidal right now. If I'm still alive this time next week,I will be really surprised. Actually, no I'll be depressed. Next weekend is my 22nd birthday. I hate birthdays. Sure I always act really excited. I'm the kind of person who counts down the days. But what's really going on in my head is anger. Anger that I've been too cowardly to kill myself yet.

This will be the first birthday I've ever spent alone. My boyfriend and I just broke up. Yeah, that would be the same boyriend I've written about before. The one who always stood by me. We were together for more than 3 years. Well he hasn't been standing by me for sometime, and now he can't take anymore. Happy Birthday to me.

I really can't blame him though. I'm not easy to be around. And things have been on a very steep downward spiral in the last year. All I've been able to do is keep myself alive. And I'm not even sure I would call this alive. I've lost all hope in everyone and everything around me.

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My Story

How will you know I'm hurting
If you cannot see my pain?
To wear it on my body
Tells what words cannot explain.
--C. Blount


I cut myself.

And to me, that seems normal. It's how I deal with life.

The first time I cut myself I was a Junior in High School. At the time, I had never heard of self-mutilation. I didn't know that it was something that 1% of the population actually does! I had never met anyone who did this. I used to think "how could someone even do that to themselves!"

Until I tried it.

I was on the phone with my best friend. She started talking about how sometimes she would scratch herself with a needle or razor. I think I said something like "How can you do that? Doesn't it hurt?" (Little did I know, soon I would be answering the same questions from other people.)

And I tried it.

I had a razor sitting on my desk and I lightly scratched my arm. There was no blood. I did it a few more times. And what happened amazed me. My heart started pounding, and I felt alive. Suddenly I was in control, and everything in my head seemed to clear. It was a high that I had never felt before.

Suddenly my life seemed managable. I could control the pain, and I knew no one could hurt me any more than I could hurt myself. I was a little proud of the fact that I could be this strong! This made me feel better than I had felt in a long time.

And that's where it started....

So I started cutting regularly. It started with a few fresh cuts ever week or so. Then I was doing it 2-3 times a week - once a day - and at the very worst times 4 - 5 times a day.

I stoped eating lunch in the cafeteria, and started locking myself in the bathroom so I could cut while I ate. A few times the blood seeped through to my jeans, and if anyone asked, I always told them that I spilled ketchup, or chocolate on myself at lunch. I used to cut my arms in 3's. This way if anyone asked about them I could say a cat scratched me. I would wear sweaters in the summer, and I would never, ever, EVER put on a bathing suit. (I still can't today because of the scars)

Where did I cut? Anything that could be hidden by my high school gym uniform. (At this time I had already started changing in the bathroom stalls so no one would see my cuts) I cut my shoulders, upper arms, stomach, thighs, and ankles. Once I cut my wrists, but this wasn't a suicide attempt. I'm not sure what it was. I read somewhere that "Suicide is the exact opposite of self- mutilation. People who commit suicide want to die. People who self-mutilate just want to feel better."

When I started cutting more frequently, I started cutting more deeply. Some of cuts would bleed for up to 3 days non-stop. I started to scare myself. My closest friends started to get scared. And then my parents FREAKED. They started to accuse me of being on drugs, being crazy...actually they didn't know what to think. This all landed me in a doctor's office with 3 prescriptions and therapy sessions three times a week.

But this didn't change my behavior. I didn't want to change. Eventually I landed myself in a Mental Hospital for 2 weeks. And I still wasn't ready to change. I learned all of the alternatives, I was taking medication for my depression, and seeing doctors. But none of it did me any good. You can't help someone feel better who doesn't want to.

So eventually my parents got frustrated, and all of this was so expensive that they just said "forget it." In a way that made me feel like I really was a lost cause. Like there was NO hope.

But there is - I think.

I have hundreds of scars on my body...especially on my upper thighs. But, they are fading. I haven't cut that badly for some time. Sometimes the fact that they are going away scares me...I don't want to lose my scars. They kind of symbolize what I've gone through with this thing. I call them my battle scars.

I don't let myself buy disposable razors anymore, because they are too easy for me to take apart. But when I get desparate enough - really anything can be used as a weapon. I've scratched myself with my finger nails, push pins, safety pins, snapped rubber bands around my wrists hard enough to leave bruises for up to a week, and I've even burned myself before. But I remain, primarily a cutter.

And sometimes I think maybe I'll always just be a cutter. Maybe I don't want help. I don't know how to stop this. I don't know how to make this better. I mean it's just me. You think that I could just say I'm not going to cut anymore. But it's much harder than that. You have to want to stop. And even though I know that I should, that doesn't mean I want to.

So how do you make yourself stop something you love doing??? Right now I don't have an answer to that...I'm hoping that someday in the future I do. This isn't easy. In fact stoping is probably the hardest thing I've ever done.

But the fight continues.

I'm trying.

I can do this.