Cutting One single word not placed in any particular context. In my dictionary it has no proper description. It seems to be a neutral English word to everybody else but me. It triggers so many emotions in me that it's almost unbearable.
At A Glance Author Sieben Contact skinnycartooncat@hotmail.com When N/A You maybe have already understood that I'm a cutter. I started to cut myself when I was in ninth grade. It started with a slight scratch, and ended up with big "grotesque" wounds (to quote a friend). It was because I needed to lose concentration. I had so many feelings, thoughts swirling around in my head and no way to stop them. They required my full concentration, and I couldn't sleep nor do anything at all. It was like I was being absorbed by infinity.
When I let something sharp slice over my wrist I felt aware of my own existence. It was a way out from being nothing - into being me. My mom eventually found out my secret, after rather much force, and didn't understand me. She thought that I was trying to kill myself and treated me slightly better than I was used to. I thought that she had changed.
It didn't take long though before she begun to make remarks about my scars. I grew more and more aware over the scars and the shame that I should feel. There was nothing that said otherwise. I had to be ashamed over myself, and the body I possess. This was frankly nothing new to me. Under my whole upbringing she had told me how repulsive my body was. It may sound that I was weak to be tricked into it but imagine a mother telling her daughter at age five how disgustingly thin she is over and over again.
Not until I was sixteen, about to become seventeen, I realized that I had nothing to be ashamed for. My dad helped me to become aware that the scars weren't something shameful at all. I realized that they were a part of me and my history. Even if I covered them up they weren't disappearing. That was actually the first summer in years that I wore a t-shirt in public.
I hit the wall again. I couldn't bear the things that were happening, the thoughts and emotions that haunted me. I actually considered killing myself, but I couldn't. There was something inside me that pulled me back from the window. I was alive but still in panic, afraid and in pain. I saw a razor. I considered to sending a SMS to my boyfriend, but my communication was shattered in pieces. I let the razor barely touch my skin, scratch the skin lightly and let it bleed. It calmed me down a bit; at least I could fall asleep now.
I had hoped that my beloved one would pass it without notice, but he didn't. He asked why I had "carved" myself. I felt insulted by the term and the attitude towards me. I answered that I didn't want to talk about it. Then he asked me what I had carved myself with. I was feeling upset and ignored his question completely. Something made him believe that the question was less insulting another day, and he asked me again. He still used the term "carving". Not only did I feel insulted, I also felt guilty.
Even the newspaper writes about how guilty and ashamed I should feel. A Swedish writer wrote once, after reading a book, that cutters were to weak minded to stop cutting themselves. She wrote that the only way to handle a cutter is to yell them to the right sense of their minds. Then she flies off and starts to complain of how hard enough parenting is. I'm fully aware of that. But life isn't that simple and we have to learn to deal with it – with cutting or without. The last thing you should do is making other people guilty in this situation. Mocking them is not the same as supporting them. I don't understand that people seem to find this hard to understand.
I had, and have, many difficulties in life. If I had a scar for everyone, I would probably have died of loss of blood. I don't cut myself anymore, I found other ways in coping with my life. The thought of cutting have passed my mind surely once or twice, but I didn't let it to get a grip on me.
I don't know what would have happened if I didn't have my dad. I meet him very seldom, but I can't describe how much those times mean to me. If I didn't have my dad, I would feel guilty of being who I am.
Conclusion There is no guilt or shame in cutting. I do not however encourage it. It's a short term way out from to much pain. In the end, it's not the best way to handle reality.