Musings of a cutter

Every time I get undressed, I see the remnants of what I have done to myself. Sometimes I'm fascinated that it has such lasting power. I will probably still have these scars on the day I die. Other times I'm disgusted by my quickness to go to the blade for help. And then, more than anything, I feel ashamed that I let myself get to that point.

My parents both have very different reactions to my cutting: my mom was sad and upset, while my father seemed more annoyed than anything. I will never forget being told over the phone that as long as I was cutting I wasn't welcome in his house. I wonder what he would say if he knew I still cut. Just because you haven't heard about it doesn't mean it just went away.

It's that ugly little secret that I don't bring up a lot. I prefer to talk about it in the past tense, as if I was far away from the time when I would cut myself. But I know I'm really not. The wrong thing, and it sends me spiraling over the edge.

I see those commercials a lot for those creams that help reduce the look of scars. Sometimes I want to get it and see if I can erase my past. Other times I don't want to erase it at all, because it's a reminder of what I have lived through. You'd think it would be an easy choice, but it's not.

Why do I cut? Because it's like this huge release. I have all of this tension, anger, and sadness building up inside me and if I don't let it out somehow, I feel like I might explode. I cut, and it's just this wave of calm that crashes over me. The tension in my shoulders go away. And then I know for the next couple of months I can escape that explosion.

Friends threatening me with not being my friend anymore, and parents threatening that I wasn't allowed to visit, was actually one of the worst things they could have done to a child who was cutting because of depression and suicidal ideation. It made me feel more alone and unloved.

I have Papa to thank for teaching me how to take care of my cuts. I told him and my Ma once what I had done, and they were disappointed. But more than anything, Papa wanted to tell me how to clean it out, wrap it, and take care of it so it didn't get infected. I do that every single time. As much as he hates my cutting, I hope he takes some solace in knowing that he taught me well at taking care of the wound. I know that so many would have gotten infected without his advice.

My name is Emi, and I am a cutter. I think I will be fighting this battle of not to cut for the rest of my life.

(also, happy 100th post!)