The Essence of Cutting

 First of all, I’m not going to cut myself, so let’s get that
out on the table right now.  A
self-mutilating woman may, in a long shot, be perceived as glamorous and
troubled when she’s younger, but can only be perceived as a crazy old hag when
she gets to be a certain age (starting at around forty and certainly by the
time she reaches fifty).  I also won’t
cut because there are people who I believe look at me as some sort of example
of something to live up to in a way.  In
addition, when one person cuts, that generally sets off a chain reaction of
others cutting.  Finally, I consider
myself a child of God and therefore sort of an ambassador on this earth… as an
ambassador I can’t do that. 

So, with the disclaimer out of the way, I was pondering
today what it is about cutting that is so appealing.  Why DID I cut when I was younger and why does it seem so tempting
when emotions begin to run high? Humiliating as it may be to admit, probably
the main inhibiting factor to me cutting is the whole crazy old hag thing.  It’s just not fitting for a woman over fifty
to be cutting.  That’s weird.  Teens cut… maybe girls in their twenties, but
old women shouldn’t cut. They should be over it by then.  Even girls in their twenties should be
beginning to pull it together enough to get past the cutting.  You know, time to grow up and move with the
mature instead of the crazies. 

But cutting is such a wonderful statement, such a terrific
form of self-expression.  First, there’s
this feeling when you do it like, “Geez, I can’t believe I’m doing this crazy
thing to myself.  I must be really out of
my mind!” That makes you feel special. 
You must be completely nuts if you’re cutting your own skin up.  You feel more self-destructive than ordinary
women and that extra self-loathing sets you apart from the crowd.  You are especially self-abhorrent and, with
that, comes a sense of pride (believe it or not).  Of course, you would never admit that, but
the pride IS there.  As a matter of fact,
when cutting became popular and it seemed like everybody was cutting, that’s
when I stopped.  What the heck? I didn’t
want to be just one of a bunch of weirded-out women who were self-mutilators.
How cool is that? It’s NOT. 

And that pride is mixed with a titillating amount of fear… maybe
you really ARE crazy.  Along with that,
you have a secret; and when things get tough around you, you feel the pain of
your sleeves brushing up against the open slash marks and that pain gives you a
certain comfort.  There’s the comfort of
the secret that nobody knows.  And
there’s the covert drama that you have hidden under those sleeves.  There’s also the tension and minor stress of
keeping the slashes hidden so that no one will guess what you’ve just done. 

When I used to cut I didn’t do any half-way job either.  I used a razor (it hurt a little less) so I
could make dozens of slashes up and down my arms and across my breasts – my
places of choice to cut.  With a
breathless mixture of fear and (although I would never have admitted it back
then) almost admiration, I would look at this damage I had done to myself then
put on the silkiest shirt I owned so that it wouldn’t hurt as much. It was like
I finally would allow myself to give myself some special treatment. Then I’d
wait, half hoping and half fearing that I’d be discovered.  Sometimes I would and sometimes I wouldn’t be
found out.  If I was, it was usually by
my boyfriend (now husband) who would seem to grieve which was always satisfying
to me.  You see, I guess I wanted him to
grieve over me.  I wanted my outside to
match how I felt on the inside so that I could get the coddling and attention
and care that maybe my psyche needed but somehow couldn’t ask for and felt it
didn’t deserve.   

And, of course, cutting is manipulative.  If you talk about cutting, people are going
to say, “Oh, don’t cut,” or “Call me first,” or any number of sympathetic or
horrified things that, again, give you extra attention and that attention feels
good – almost as good as the cutting, itself. 
And talking about the cutting afterward feels great.  It’s dramatic and sets you apart from the
ordinary, less angst ridden people. 
“Look at the mental anguish I endure… I cut!” 

Of course I wasn’t so light-hearted about it back when I
started.  I was in my late twenties.
(I’ve always been a late bloomer. Cutters these days start much younger.) I
didn’t know anyone else who cut themselves and I really DID think I was the
only one, so I seriously was afraid I was nuts. 
I was also terrified that if I was found out I would be
institutionalized and my children would be taken away from me.  Consequently I lived in terrible fear of being
discovered.  There was no attention
getting for me at all at first.  I had a
different therapist way back then and wouldn’t even share the fact that I cut
with him.  Finally, I secretly called a
24-hour crisis intervention line and without giving them my name or any
information, I told them about my cutting and asked if I would be put away or
if my children would be taken.  They told
me they didn’t think any of those things would happen if I told my therapist,
so I let him know.  He was not terribly
helpful, but at least nothing happened to me. 
He did give me the, “Call me before you do it again,” line and I think I
got drunk one night and did call him. (I’ve always been such a mature young lady.)
But he wasn’t the RIGHT therapist for me. 
I really acted out with him and I have never in my life been one to act
out LOL. 

Anyway, to get back to cutting, even when it wasn’t in any
way to gain attention or manipulate, it was a wonderful way to release the
building emotions inside.  I used to feel
like a volcano was churning internally and the cutting would release the lava
and let it flow.  Once I cut, there was a
certain decompression and the clandestine feeling as well as the resultant pain
were an important part of the whole process. 

Cutting was also sort of an homage to suicide for me.  There was no way on earth I was going to
commit suicide with two young girls to raise. I loved them way to much to leave
them and certainly way too much to screw them up for life like that!  So the closest I could get was to cut.  And when my problems would begin to close in
on me and take over my mind so that I didn’t know what to think or which way to
turn, the pain that was left in my arms and chest would draw my attention and
focus away from my fear and anxiety about how the bills were going to get paid
or whatever other thing was getting to me. 
Of course I was also a victim of childhood sexual abuse and recent adult
rape so I’m sure that trauma had not left a light mark upon my mind!  And those are just the sort of
slap-you-in-the-face traumas I can throw out in a conversation to make a
point.  I had been through smaller
traumas of probably more significance during my first marriage that were just
as detrimental or likely even more detrimental. 
My adult life had been no less than hell, so cutting my arms up was
right in line with everything else.  It’s
remarkable I didn’t do worse.  And I had
no empathy for myself whatsoever.  I had
no compassion for myself and no self-encouragement… just self-talk commanding
myself to pull myself up by my boot-straps and stop whining.  I am my toughest critic and was definitely a
harsh and cold self-talker back then. 

And cutting also seemed so clean… the blade was clean, the
blood was clean, it ripped through my skin which seemed so dirty. That always
appealed to me too. It was a clean act and an act of repentance.  It was a relief.  

Only now, I realize it was just a big cop out.  It’s only an act of repentance if somebody
wants that penitence and nobody wants it. 
It only causes stress for other people. 
It makes me look bad and puzzles people who don’t understand it.  God doesn’t look upon it with favor. He
doesn’t ask for it.  It doesn’t make my
therapist more interested, it just puts me in this weird sort of
less-equal-to-him spot (at least in my mind) and certainly the last thing my
husband needs is to worry about me cutting.  

Now, if a teenager is out there thinking about cutting,
that’s another thing.  Her back might be
against a wall because nobody will listen to her unless she does something
concrete to MAKE them listen so she cuts or starves herself or freaks out in
some other way because that’s the only way the adults will listen to her.  Please understand that I’m not condoning
cutting oneself here, just saying I sort of understand when it seems like
there’s no other way to handle something. 
The thing is, there’s got to be other ways and I guess the other way
here is to think through (as I have done above) WHY you need to/want to do it
then just be honest about it.  Then take
that honesty to its final end… like telling the very people who are making you
feel like cutting that they’re making you feel like cutting.  But then I suppose they’ll just take that as
you being manipulative so I don’t know. 
Being a teenager sucks.  If your
back is against the wall so badly that you feel like cutting and you tell your
parent or your boyfriend that they’ve frustrated you to the point of cutting,
they may respond with anger as if you are threatening or manipulating them so
that leaves you looking like such a b*tch and makes you feel even more
frustrated and desperate.  So what do you
do?  

I’m thinking here…. 

I guess the only answer is you have to get a therapist, but
not just ANY therapist.  You have to get
the RIGHT therapist.  You have to get the
one that understands and that somehow can help you develop the right set of
emotional tools so that you can get over whatever emotional humps you need to
get over to deal with the volatile emotions that make it so you feel like
you’re just going to die if you don’t do something NOW and that something
results in cutting.  And the RIGHT
therapist may be somebody who arranges for you to even take meds to help you be
able to develop those emotional tools. THAT’S what I guess you do.  The reason I recommend that is because you
don’t want to be a crazy old hag.  The
guys worth “getting” are not the ones that are drawn to the crazy old
hags.  You do not want to become a career
psycho inpatient or immerse yourself in your mental illness.  THAT is not a good way to go through
life.  You will miss the things that are
the most important, fulfilling, and enjoyable. 

Cutting is like a drug. 
It’s a temptation and almost addictive, but there are reasons why we’re
tempted and reasons why it just doesn’t make sense to do it.  It just doesn’t get you where you want to be,
even if it feels like it will.