i think its finally time
to let go of the past.
I wrote this back in september, i wrote it for heather who wanted to use me as a reference because she was writing for a paper for a class.
Its a little long, but i think its interesting, and i think it gives all the answers that i couldn't say out loud when people asked.
its been a long time coming but here it goes...
So I guess I should start by saying this is hard for me to talk about. When people see and ask I usually tell them that "I got in a fight with a cat" and they either accept that or they take note that I don't want to talk about it.
Now after that brief intro I guess I should just put this out on paper. I am a cutter. Though it has been quite some time since I have done it I still say "I am" cause in a way I feel like it defines me still, it sets me apart from everyone else. Now I am at college and no one here knows but at home I will always feel different. Here at school, which after only 4 short weeks I consider it a home, I consider this my biggest secret.
I will start with 'the how' then move on to 'the why'. My guess is 'the why' will be the essence of your paper but after hearing 'the how' I’m sure you will find it significant also. Plus sitting here I feel that 'the why' will be the most difficult part. I will go into as much detail as I can.
I had a pair of scissors. Small silver sharp manicure scissors. Funny how manicure scissors are used for beauty and instead I used them to mar my body. Well anyway, they were broken. The tip of one side was bent at a 90 degree angle making it easy. But it wasn't easy like I thought. On the first swipe I didn’t even break the skin. It merely left a little red line like I had just scratched it along something. So I tried again, over the same spot, then again, and then again. Over and over I clawed at my skin with a rage I could not even now describe. Until, eventually, there was blood, at first just a drop, but then one more time over my now very sensitive raw skin and there it was an open wound. I began to cry, and continued until there were no tears left in me. But when it was done, I felt a release of sorts. Almost as if there was a rush, and I could be in control again. With the 15 minutes it took me to open that one inch slit on my left arm, and the feeling it brought me, I became labeled as a cutter for the rest of my life.
I'd like to say it ended there, but as you very well know it didn't. The first one was so hard but it got easier every time. Push a little harder and you won’t have to go over it so many times, move the scissors quicker and there will be less pain. It was a science. Wait for mom and dad to fall asleep. Cut, cry, and tape a tissue over it, sneak down stairs to get an icepack to help with the stinging, then afterschool when no one was home sneak the ice pack back in the freezer. It was something I could do that they couldn’t control.
Who is they you ask. I guess we have come to the inevitable why. "They" would be my parents. I was never going to be good enough for them. I was never going to be the athlete my dad wanted me to be or get the 4.0 my mom wanted, and I was never going to be skinny enough for either of them. The things they pushed so hard for. That’s all I ever got from them: pushing. Driving and nudging and urging me to do that one little thing, to work a little bit harder, to try something else. But it wasn’t encouragement like most kids get, it was so condescending, it was saying we'll like you better if... or you're not good enough unless... Not like my parents, my "picture perfect parents", would ever say those things. But I knew it was all for them. Everything they wanted from me was so that society knew that their kid was good. Not I was good not Pam was good but their kid. Whatever I did came back to them. And their image and their stupid selves. Well I couldn’t take it. I enjoyed being me, and I like who I was. And that right there is what hurt the most, it’s that I was happy with myself and that wasn’t good enough for them. No matter how much I told them I liked me, and who I was, and the grades I got, and what I looked like, I was so happy and that was never enough for them. They needed me to be better. And I knew no matter how much I tried I would never be.
So there is your why right there I think writing it helped because I never would have said it out loud. I didn’t expect to cry but here I am with tears streaming. So I really hope this helps.
After they found out for a while I continued to cut. Because when they found out they tried to take even more control. And it was the only thing I could do to fight back. They tried to make me see someone. So I did for a few weeks. But it was pointless so I told them if they made me go back I would cut more. They stopped making me go after that. I know my parents well enough to know they would never send me away. They wouldn’t know what to tell their friends. So why did I stop. I stopped because it wasn’t supposed to be about them. It was about me. and when my family and my friends and everyone just kept asking why and what’s wrong and can we help I knew I had to stop, because it was supposed to be my escape not push me farther in. so I withdrew from life for I while. Just going through the motions instead of actually caring. Eventually I got back to myself but I never felt like the same person.
This coming November will be 2 years since the last time. Though as far as everyone knows January will be 4. No, I did not continuously cut for those 2 years. But once in a while I found it necessary. Just as a reminder. A reminder of who I used to be, or why I shouldn’t go back to it. I really don’t know. After the "episode", as I refer to it, my mom bought me scar cream. I never used it. She wanted the lines to go away so badly. She doesn’t want her child to be marked. But I need them to be there. I need to still see them from time to time to help myself. I need to be marked, not to stand out and not for others to see but to remind me that I should live my life for me and no one else. I know that the "episode" just made me even more to disapprove of in their eyes, the way they talked about it, and the way they tried to hide it. It was so unacceptable. But as I said I still consider it a part of me. So they are going to have to deal with it.
I appreciate if you read that, but as i said before i think most of you were curious at one point anyway.