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.

Sunday, March 31, 2002

March 31, 2002

My depression always seems to come to a climax. Actually climax may not be the right word. I think 'climax'insinuates excitment, or even suspense. Neither of which suit depression very well. I guess it would be better to say my depression always has a peak. No that's not right either. Peak insinuates a high, or maybe a good time. I guess what I'm saying is eventually you hit rock bottom. I was trying to come up with some original way to describe it, but I guess I've failed. I settled for the old stand-by 'rock bottom.' Though it may be a cliche, it's true. Isn't that why things become cliches? Because as trite as they might sound, deep inside they hold some nugget of truth.

So rock bottom it is. It's a valley of sadness that sometimes goes on for days, weeks, or even months. And really, 'sadness' doesn't do the feeling justice. There are no words to do the feeling justice. The point I'm talking about is when you just feel so bad, you don't even care to do anything. Sometimes you're depressed, and you kind of just want to cry, or cut, or plan your own death. But when you get to this place - you literally just sit and stare at a wall.

I don't want to cry, I don't want to cut, I don't want to talk to a friend, I don't want a parent, or a roommate, or a brother, or a boyfriend, I don't want to sleep, I don't want to read good book, I don't want to watch a movie, I don't want to see I Love Lucy, (my favorite show, I'm a little obsessed), I dont' want to curl up with my security blanket named 'Stan,' I dont' want to eat yummy goldfish crackers, or carrots and celery, I don't want a ceasar salad, I don't want to hold my kitty, I don't want to smile, I don't want to go out, I don't want to get up, I don't want to work, I don't want to write, I don't want to pretend anymore, and most of all I don't want help. But, this thing is becoming more apparent everyday. People are catching on, I'm not as cheerful as I usually am. You can only hide this to a certain extent.

I hate myself. No, no that's not true. Hate is not the right word. I hate brussel sprouts, I hate when my cat climbs my curtains, I hate the color orange, and sometimes I think I hate my parents. But I don't hate myself. (Boy I can't find any of the 'right' words tonight. I guess I'm losing my touch.) No, I loathe myself. Loathing is more than hate, or dislike. It's a shame that makes you sick inside.

People have asked me what it will take to make me better right now. A quick fix, to get me int he right mindset to get some real help. Unfortunatly, right now, there is absolutly nothing I can think of, that's going to make this better.

I have run from place to place. Setting goals for myself, thinking 'if I just get here, I'll feel better, I'll be happy.' = ) Of course it never works.

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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.