The thing that I despise most about non-cutters is the way that they can so easily ridicule those who are cutters. Recently, I took a psychology class in which I casually listened to the teacher state, "Cutting...hmm...well, that's just something I never really understood." Her words made me want to scream and shout. I pictured myself punching her smiling face in, stating that she could never possibly understand, but I fought the urges and restrained myself. I've always known in my heart that to understand why one cuts, why one would knowingly inflict pain upon his own being, a person needs to have experienced it himself.
At A Glance Author anonymous Contact anonymous@bme.anon When Six months ago Artist Myself Studio My Body Location Anywhere... My entire life I was abused by my father, both verbally and physically when I was younger. I tried with all my might to block the images from my memory, to forget the way he almost strangled my mother, and left a huge bruise on her thigh from once locking her in-between two doors. Often before going to sleep, I would remember the way that I witnessed him throwing glasses at her one night, the glass sinking into her soft flesh. The images disturbed me, and made me shy to the outside world. I was so quiet and withdrawn, and I hated almost everything about myself. By the time I was 14, I found that I was spending almost every waking moment on my computer, talking to people that I knew I would never meet. It was so easy to hide behind a keyboard and a computer screen, knowing that these people would never see the real me.
However, by the time I was 16, I realized that I only had about one friend, and that I needed to move on. At my friend's birthday party, I met my first real boyfriend, whom I dated for almost a year. I started to feel differently about him as young teenagers often do, and so I broke it off with him. He was destroyed and cried like a baby on the telephone, which made me feel terrible. I hated to hurt another human being because I knew how it felt to be in pain, and I was destroyed. Later, I found out that after all of that, he had actually cheated on me and betrayed me for four months. When I found that out, it was like I had been shot with a bullet to the heart, and I couldn't breath. Once again, I had been rejected and betrayed by another human being, something that I absolutely could not handle. It was then that I started really cutting, unable to take the fact that I had once again been hurt by my society. I used all objects: earrings, needles, pushpins, scissors, and even knives. I sliced places people would never see, such as my upper thighs and high on my shoulders. For some reason it made me feel better, and it was a comfort to see the blood.
A month passed, and my mother could see that I was still very hurt from the break-up, which lead her to believe that I needed therapy. My therapist didn't understand the ways of my parents, and forced me to tell my mother about my masochism. I begged my mother not to tell my father, because I knew he wouldn't understand, but after a while she did. He reacted in the exact way that I suspected he would, and accused me of being completely crazy. I felt that I had no one, and immediately withdrew myself once again. I found myself cutting almost everyday, hiding from the rest of the world.
My parents began to hate my therapist due to the fact that she suggested I be put on medication, and they quickly switched me to another one. This therapist was a bit more helpful, and suggested that I get a job in order to get into the real world. Desperate for some sort of approval, I applied to a pizzeria a few blocks away from me, and was hired in October of 2004. I was excited to finally meet a few new people, and to have a way to get out of my home. I hated being there, being ignored, and feeling alone in a house full of people.
A few weeks after I started the job, I noticed that one of the delivery boys there was starting to take interest in me. Every time he would pass me, he would smile and ask me if I wanted a ride home. I noticed that he didn't do that to any of the other girls that worked there, and I started to feel special. After a while, I accepted his offer and he gave me a ride home. During the ride, he asked me if I wanted to hang out with him, and I said yes eagerly. He bought me ice cream and then took me to his house, where he started kissing me and pushing my head down in order to give him a blow-job. I was confused and I wanted to feel accepted, so I did it. He gave me two rides home after that, all which resulted in the same thing: me going down on him...and getting nothing out of it. I was so stupid that I even asked him if he was just using me at one point, to which of course he replied no. He even seemed offended. I learned later that he was just using me to get back at his ex-girlfriend who had cheated on him in the past, and I only wish that I would have realized then what I know now.
About three-four weeks later, he quit his job. I watched him walk out the door and knew that I had to do something about it, so I grabbed the employee sheet, and wrote his phone number on my hand. Later on, I called him and asked him if he wanted to see me again. He was extremely kind and said of course...and picked me up two days later. I expected that we would go on a real date and finally be a couple, but instead he just brought me over to his house for yet another blow-job. He brought me home right after, and I collapsed in front of my house as soon as he left me. The only person I had to call was my best friend, who told me in hysterics that her father had cancer and that her dog had just died. I begged her to let me come over, because I felt so horrible about everything, but she told me that I just couldn't. When we hung up I knew that there was only one thing I could do...and I ran upstairs to my desk drawer where I had an entire package of Benedryll. Without thinking, I took three pills and wanted to take even more, just to make it work faster...but I knew it would kill me. I grabbed the telephone and dialed a suicide hot-line, hoping they could convince me not to take any more pills, but the person only made me feel worse about the whole situation. On the other end of the phone line, I could hear the person saying things like, "It feels like you're trapped in a box, doesn't it?" and, "Wow...you really are alone". I took 14 Benedryll and one Dramamine in total when the police finally arrived at my front door, complete with an ambulance. I was rushed to the hospital, forced to have a cathode tube, IV, drink a huge amount of charcoal, and be hooked up to heart monitor...but the nightmare didn't even end there. Just when I thought I was finally free, my mother walked into the room, with tears streaming down her face. Her first words were, "How could you do this to us?" but I could only think about me. She called my father on the phone, who was in Florida away on a business trip, and told him what had happen "\Ãw€ë ed. He immediately blamed the guy and assumed that he raped me, even though the entire situation was basically my own fault. I hung up the phone on my father and the next day when I felt better, I was brought to a mental institution. It was there that I realized how much I had compared to the other girls, and how much I had really taken for granted. I spent two nights there, and one day...and then my father came to get me out. He surprised me by making a complete turn around and was very supportive of me. The second I saw him, I ran into his arms and cried my eyes out like I did when I was four years old. He hugged me and told me that it was okay...and then told me that I didn't need to do this anymore. He told me that I was a beautiful, intelligent girl and I didn't need boys or anyone else who treated me badly. My Dad talked to my psychiatrist and got him to release me, and for once I was glad that he was so manipulative. I had never been so happy in my entire life to pack up my belongings and get out of there. After that, I was evaluated by a psychiatrist and put on Lexapro for anxiety and depression, and I have been much better since then. I still have anxiety, and I still cut on occasion, but I have much more support and I know that there are people in the world who love me. No one ever realizes how much people care, but they all really do. No matter how many times your parents may say hateful things, or act in a bad manner, you don't know how much they really do care about you. There is no book for parenting, and parents only know what they were taught as children. Though this experience was the hardest and most difficult thing I've ever faced in my short life of 18 years, it was also one of the best because it taught me that I did have reason to live...if not for myself, then because I had others who truly loved me. I hope that others can realize this as well, and learn from my experience as I did.