So, before I begin, I have to say something really fast here. I just sent a review to my writing teacher (the whole honors class went to a reading by two famous authors and we then had to write a review) and he wrote back and said, "Ms. _____, you were born for the page." So I feel pretty great. But on to the real subject.
I know a person who has been cutting. Sometimes she reads this blog - at least I imagine she does, because she subscribes to it. I just wanted to say something to her without writing a comment that goes on forever.
I have been there. Not exactly where you've been, needless to say. Riley was my Patrick. Miguel was my Connor. Cutting was my... well, cutting. Yes, I used to cut myself. I started much younger - I was 14, and didn't even realize that there was a name for what I was doing. I certainly didn't realize how widespread it was. I tried pocket knives, razors, and upon occasion (when I had nothing else) hair clips. I only did my left arm, because I needed to use one arm at least to wash dishes, and you can't exactly wear long sleeves while doing dishes. I took to wearing a jean jacket constantly, even to bed. When I wore short sleeves, I was always worried that someone would notice. I started feeling sorry for myself, and then I looked up some cutting websites. A few offered help. Most offered companionship. They wrote about their own cutting experiences, talking about why they still did it. I was completely shocked to see that even people in their 20's were doing it. There were a lot of pictures. At that point I wasn't a bad cutter. I didn't go very deep - there was a lot of blood involved, but never anything really bad. Once I saw the pictures, I realized how much worse their cutting habits were, and my own got worse, mostly because I felt like I should keep up. I was depressed most of the time, wore a lot of black (not that black is a bad thing - hey, it's stylish - but it wasn't characteristic for me at all), and didn't do much of anything but read. One day I started cutting and just didn't stop - I started crying and just kept cutting, blood dripping all over the sink and counter and floor. I don't know why I even stopped. I didn't want to, that was for sure. I'd love to say that's when I realized I had a problem. But no, that wasn't the turning point. I wasn't exactly given to admitting problems - even to myself. I went on in the same depressed, pathetic state for about two years, before I finally made a bargain with God (and incidentally, I don't believe you can really do that, but it rarely stops me from trying) that if he would keep Riley safe, I would stop cutting. I never cut again. Now I look back and can't believe the way I was then. No motivation, no self-respect, and no realization of how far gone I was. I think about all those times I read about the twenty-somethings who cut and were proud of it, and I feel better than them (maybe horrible, but true) because I'm not even as old as they are, and I've grown-up more. I remember reading somewhere that cutters need help to quit - that they can't do it by themselves. Not true. I never told anyone. God helped, I think. That's it. I sure didn't talk to a counselor (nasty moneysuckers, in my opinion), and I didn't tell my parents.
I'm saying all of this because I don't want you to get stuck in my story. I don't want you - or anyone - to get sucked into this and have it turn out badly. It really is horrible, and you don't realize how horrible until you escape it. I feel like I should say something else, but I'm pretty much worded out, and if you're anything like I was, you'll ignore this. Just PLEASE think about it. It really isn't worth it.
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