S’ Story

Today we have our first contribution to “Journal”. I’d like to thank this person very much for sending it in. It isn’t easy sharing such a difficult chapter of your life, but she even had the courage to go first. This story is very inspiring. It shows that it is not always easy to quit hurting yourself, but it IS possible.

I don’t honestly remember the very first time I cut. I assume it’s because when I would cut, I was in a very strange place… a place that was so full of rage and desperation that there was hardly any room for me. I was probably 14 or 15 . My life, from the outside, was good. But on the inside, I was a mess, my family was a mess. The stress from my life led to a number of health problems, which led to depression, anxiety, and self mutilation. I stopped going to public school and was homeschooled. My group of friends changed for the better. Except that I met a guy who also cut. He was just as troubled as I was. It became our secret bond. We suffered silently together. We’d talk about our cutting, our dark side. We would compare scars, talk about our favorite places. I felt like my cutting was justified, and thus I increased my cutting. I started writing very, very dark poetry. I went deeper and deeper into my own personal black hole. I cut often, and for a variety of reasons. Originally I cut out of anger and self-loathing, but it progressed into cutting for the sake of cutting, or to see myself bleed and remember that I was real. Sometimes it was about punishing myself, in which case I’d re-open a recent cut, and push the blade deeper than before. Sometimes I would get into such a trance I’d just sit there and make criss-cross designs on my knees even after the pain and rage bled out.

I didn’t just cut though. I burned, I purposefully injured myself, I’d do anything I could. Cutting was my main means, but once I got married, it became much more difficult to cut. Although scrape from a seraded edge on a box of foil? Easily explained. I couldn’t hide my desire to injure myself when we would get into a fight though. I continued to cut myself, and when I had nothing to cut with, I’d bang my head against the wall so hard I’d bleed, bruise, and have huge swollen spots on my head.

I’m happy to say, I am pretty much “sober” now. What changed? I had a son. After 4 months of marriage, I became pregnant. I had something to live for. I had someone who I cared so much about, and I refused to be a self-mutilating mother. You may be saying I should have felt that way when I got married… but marriage doesn’t change who you are. of course I loved my husband, but it didn’t change me like being a mom did. He could still function and fend for himself with a wife who cut. But a child? No. I didn’t want to be the cause of my son’s nightmares, I didn’t want to be what scared him.

I still get angry, I still want to cut. But now I look at my little boy, and I just can’t do it. It took loving something, someone, greater than myself to change me.

- S.

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