I was a cutter.
I promised myself I would never admit that especially not on social media. But here I am, writing a blog post.
I wasn’t the kind of cutter that’d do it everyday – I’d think about it everyday. And I still do. I was the kind of cutter that, when emotions are heightened, the ending result would be to exercise it through self mutilation.
Depression has been something I’ve battled for years ever since I was about 9. See, when I was a kid I didn’t notice the world around me because my dolls would keep me busy. But when I did get a look, I’d see everyone and everything was fucked up. Inside my little body, my feelings were out of place – I thought I wasn’t from this planet. Never felt like I belonged anywhere. Though I excelled in school, I wasn’t excelling socially and internally.
Honestly, most of my life is a blur to me. I can’t remember anything really. All I know is, the day that I started was the day I almost got hit by a car. Wasn’t paying attention, and almost got smashed. I was having a horrible day already, and that took the icing on the cake.
Bout 13, I believe.
A few hours after I settled in my home, I blew up. Felt like someone ripped my scalp off and shoved it in my chest. So, I dashed in the bathroom, found a shitty little razor and slashed myself twice. Impulsively.
The blood ran down my arm and kissed the floor, so gently. It was alleviating. Thrilling. Soothing.
It started really hurting me so I patched it up and pretended like it was just a burn or something. My family suspected something was wrong, but obviously I denied it and they let it go.
Periodically, I had the urge to cut. Not because anything was wrong, but because it made everything feel right. To see the blood and pain relate with what was inside that I couldn’t see, only through useless tears that made my face puff up, was satisfying.
Sometime this year, I resulted to cutting. I found the embarrassment more painful then what bothered me. Those scars add an extra weight on my left arm.
I raise my arm and everyone stares. I’m not surprised – I did this to myself.
I’d question why God decided to create me in this image, I’d question why I was incapable of truly connecting with others, I’d question why I have yet another impulse – another trick up my sleeve. Pun intended.
Everyday it’s harder and harder to deny those thoughts. Especially when trouble arises. But, I’ve been starving that shit.
I’m not ashamed or embarrassed or afraid. This makes up a part of my life. Honesty is the best policy and to accept and say that I had/have an issue with self harm is more helpful then denying what’s real. In order to become stronger, one must confront what’s going on.
If you’re battling depression, self-mutilation, anxiety, whatever it is – you’re not alone. And to those of you who judge others for their actions, or you’re just curious as to why and how someone goes about hurting themselves, I suggest you educate yourselves by checking these sites out.
Understand To Love.
- K.A. Shepherd