WARNING: This material may be triggering to some in the cutting community. Please don't read on if you struggle with self-harm or masochistic tendencies and you’re on the edge right now.
Those who don't self-harm
will never understand those who do. And they won't because they haven't
experienced the pull of a major addition. Imagine falling off a cliff, then, trying
to stop in mid air? Not that they should experience cutting-driven masochism, because
it really is horrible.
On the other
hand, everyone is vulnerable to some addiction. We’re all addicted to food and air in a major way. Try not breathing for two
minutes and you’ll have some idea of the seriousness of a cutting addiction.
Deprived of air, all you can think of is taking your next breath—cutting takes
over your brain like that.
Would it ever
help, then, to tell a cutter that self-harm does nothing for them, that it
won’t fix anything, or that they can and should just stop? Logic won’t work
here nor will simply taking the rational high road.
Here’s what it’s like for someone
caught in the grip of a full-blown cutting addiction.
Cutters out
there, if you are easily triggered, better not read on, or return to this
section when you’re feeling stronger.
For those
concerned about a cutter, I want you to keep an open mind so you’ll come to
understand where the addiction gets its power. Also, I may be using low-impact
words, but don’t be fooled. Self-harm is NOT something you’d want to see anyone
doing on any level.
During a
cutting addiction, most everything in the person’s life will get worse, and
though they may want to quit, it isn’t something you can just snap yourself out
of.
As you read
on, I’ll be referring to you as if you harm yourself so you can walk a mile in our
shoes before judging us.
I will be
focusing on cutting since that was my main method of self-injury and because it
is also the primary form of self-harm being practiced out there.
Here is a glimpse into the mind of
someone who suffers from masochistic impulses.
The thought to
hurt yourself returns again and again—echoing through your mind like the
heartbeat of a monster. What began as an occasional indulgence now happens more
and more frequently. Somehow, cutting has become the solution to all of your
problems—your savior—your Sir Lanc…elot.
Perhaps you
heard about it from a friend, or found out that some students at school were cutting.
Even a well-meaning school assembly about bullying or racism can refer to it.
It might have happened quite by accident. You slipped holding a scissor or
rubbed against something sharp, drawing blood. It could have even popped into
your head all on its own. No matter how, once it did the thought of cutting
never left—beckoning like Captain Ahab’s addiction who though dying on Moby
Dick’s massive body, called his crew to their deaths as well.
You might be
thinking, why would anyone even give something as self-destructive as cutting a
second thought? You know it’s bad. You know it really can’t fix anything.
Despite all that, you yearn to try it at least once. You have to see how it
feels.
You’ve hated
yourself for awhile now, and are feeling the need to express that
self-loathing. You don’t tell others what you’re dealing with for fear they’ll
think you’re a wuss. Or worse, they’ll
pity you and offer false hope and ridiculous assurances like, “Just hang in
there…everything will work itself out.”
Anyway, you
know that this is your problem and there’s no Harry Potter around to wave a
magic wand and make it all disappear. No matter what anyone says, you’re still
going to find yourself disgusting. It’s about knowing you’re to blame for not
being good enough, for being such a failure at everything, for being completely
worthless.
Another long,
hard, dreary day and like always you feel worn down, numb, and empty inside.
Nothing seems to matter anymore. You feel disconnected from everyone, as if
there is an invisible barrier you can’t breach. Sure, to the outside world you
still laugh and talk like you usually do, but it’s all staged and you’re
experiencing perpetual stage fright—not knowing if you’ll ever get a part in
the failing play of a life that’s doing poorly at the box office.
You can’t feel
anything anymore—not happiness, not sadness—you want to cry, but the tears
won’t come. Desperate to literally crawl out of your skin, your body feels like
a maximum security prison cell with no way to break out.
The Grim
Reaper taps you on the shoulder…why not
end it all…but despite the apparent hopelessness of your situation, surprisingly
suicide isn’t really on the table. You wouldn’t cause your family and friends
such terrible grief. You may be afraid of death, not knowing what will happen
on the other side. Whatever makes people actually kill themselves, you’re not
motivated that way.
You just need
to feel something again—anything but the dark relentless emptiness that engulfs
you day after day.
That’s when you decide—to cut.
You struggle
with the decision, but to you there aren’t any other alternatives. You refuse
to carry on like a mindless, bloodless extra in Warm Bodies.
Again, there’s
no reaching out, especially now that you know there’s something wrong. You’re
wary about how others would react if they knew you were cutting yourself.
You pick up
the razor, or scissors, or anything sharp. Sitting in a private place, you
can’t believe this is really happening. The blade shakes in your hand from
anticipation, apprehension, and primal fear. Part of you wants to pull back, so
you hesitate. You squash that resistance and pressure yourself to go ahead. You
have to feel something again—to PROVE YOU EXIST.
You’ll only do
this once, you promise yourself, just to see what it’s like, then, you’ll never
touch the blade again. Tentatively, you prick your skin with the razor. The
first time stings and there’s a little spurt of blood. It’s just a scratch,
really, so there’s nothing to worry about.
But…that isn’t enough.
You need more
so you do it again, but deeper this time. You accidentally press a little too
hard and end up gushing blood. This time it hurts—a lot! You gape at the thick,
viscous, crimson liquid and quickly grab some toilet paper to stop the
bleeding. At first, panic sets in, but once that subsides you realize that you
are feeling something—something GOOD.
You’re
lightheaded and your heart is racing, but it’s a RUSH. You like this new
sensation. You haven’t felt anything in so long.
The vow you
made to only cut once…that’s dumped in the trash bin of broken promises. You
continue to cut—and you want to, you need to feel that high again.
You make a new
promise to only cut occasionally, but that soon changes to every day, then,
every few hours.
Now you’re addicted…now you can’t get
enough.
You think
about cutting every second of every day. It’s either in the forefront of your
mind, or lurking like a thief in your subconscious, but it’s always
there—beating like an endless pulse. You’re constantly planning your next cut
in every detail; when, where, what, how and for how long. You’re thinking ahead
about what to say if someone sees your scars. You’ve worked it all out so you
can continue your addiction without anyone noticing.
You’ll hide
your scars by wearing long sleeves, or cut on hidden places like your thighs.
You’ll make up stories about where the cuts came from and avoid the kind of
close physical contact where someone might feel the ridges on your scars, which
might make you flinch from the pain if they’re not healed.
You’ll avoid
public places such as pools or beaches where you might have to change into a
tell-all bathing suit. You stock up on medical supplies for when your cutting
sessions get a bit out of hand, so you don’t bleed to death or worse, get blood
all over everything which might give you away. You close yourself off from
meeting new people; paranoid that they might become suspicious of you.
Whenever
something bad happens, you cut. Whenever you fail at anything, you cut.
Whenever you do something stupid, you cut. You want to punish yourself for
being the pitiful looser that you are, and whenever you cut, that beautiful
burning sensation is your reward. You’ve gotten vengeance upon your slovenly,
useless self making up for every single one of your terrible flaws.
You begin to
despise and loathe yourself more and more, which drives you to cut more and
more. You want to see the blood, feel the pain, and drown in the euphoric
after-flow of endorphins. You want to rip yourself to shreds—tear yourself
apart.
You start to
see blood everywhere whenever you’re in the throws of a cutting urge. You
imagine blood dripping from the ceiling, pooling on the floor, on your skin or
even falling from the sky like some sick scene from a slasher flick. You’ll see
new cuts on your body in places you intend to cut later.
Time passes.
You might be cutting for weeks, months, or even years before finally deciding
to tell someone—because you know you need help for anything to change. The
problem, you’re not really sure you want help. That might mean giving up
cutting and you don’t want to stop—but you know you have to. All the hiding and
secrecy is wearing on you. Perhaps if you told someone you trusted, you’d feel
better.
So, you break your silence and tell
your best friend.
The words are
nearly impossible to get out. You stutter, sputter, stumble, stammer and
somehow continue speaking by taking deep breaths to keep yourself from
hyperventilating. Finally, the words come out, “I cut myself.”
With no idea
how they’ll react, you prepare for the worst. At first, they are stunned, then
shocked. They’ll never understand why you would want to hurt yourself. They ask
the inevitable questions, “Why are you doing this?” or “Can I see?” You give some
vague answers. You show them some of your older, less prominent scars so they
won’t freak out as much—or maybe you get a little scared and decide not to show
them.
Then, the
nagging begins. They go off of you, “You’re stupid for harming yourself,” and,
“You’re being so selfish. Just think how fortunate you are compared to so many
others,” or, “You could bleed to death,” and, “Cutting is pointless and won’t
fix anything.”
You try to
help them understand, but they won’t budge. At that point you just tune them
out.
You knew they
wouldn’t get it. You knew it would be pointless telling them. Now, you regret
saying anything and swear never to tell anyone ever again.
Their
judgmental lecture was useless. They begin to distance themselves from you.
Of course, they
won’t tell anyone—you made them promise, and even though they didn’t
understand, you can still trust them, right? To make sure they keep your
secret, you continue being their friend and work hard not to upset them in any
way. One wrong move and they might just betray you.
Basically, you
keep it to yourself and continue your self-harm behavior, but you begin to feel
the building strain from both cutting and keeping such an intense secret. It
makes you even more moody and restless. You’re running out of places to cut
where no one can see. More than anything, you’re actually beginning to feel
much worse, not better.
Like most
addictions, now you have to go deeper and deeper to feel anything. As if that
wasn’t bad enough, the sense of emptiness and self-hatred returns sooner after
each session, forcing you to cut more often. You actually start feeling even
more depressed each time the rush from cutting wears off. You want help, but
are still too afraid and too worried about what people will think of you once they
find out. Most of all, you’re too afraid of having the one thing that feeds
your addiction taken from you.
A secret of this life-and-death
significance just can’t remain undiscovered forever.
Eventually,
someone finds out. They might yell, scream, cry, threaten and even outright
reject you. They’ll blame you for lying and betraying them.
You don’t see
it that way—it wasn’t any of their business to begin with. They didn’t have to
know and you never wanted them to, but now that they do, things aren’t the same
between you.
Once you’re
outed, therapy is inevitable. You resist. You still want to cut. OMG…now you
have to spill all to a complete stranger—someone with the power to declare you
insane and lock you up in a loony bin! They’ll put you on meds. Will they help?
From that
point on, recovery is road littered with landmines. You might end up isolated
in a hospital, tied down to a bed to keep you from harming yourself, or drugged
out of your mind into zombie-like compliance. You can be labeled with a mental
illness—a shackle you’ll be burdened with for the rest of your life. And,
despite all the professional intervention, you’ll still feel the urge to cut.
Then, the
roller coaster starts—you’ll rise and fall, then, rise and fall again only it
seems like this ride from hell will never end.
Eventually, though, you will recover.
You’ve stopped
cutting and you finally feel better than you have, perhaps ever—not whole yet,
not happy yet, but better. At least you feel content enough that the demon of
self-hatred is not driving the urge to cut as much—but it’s always there,
lurking in the shadows of your troubled mind like a nightmare that will never
end.
On the up
side, you no longer think about cutting every second of every minute of every
day. Now, you understand why you can’t cut anymore—because it never actually
helped you. It was your ultimate alluring poison, but it only temporarily
killed the demons that drove your addiction.
Your wounds
healed and your scars faded, but they would always be there, a constant
reminder of your past struggles—battles that left invisible scars on your heart
and mind as well.
*********
I know this
was difficult for those of you in the self-harm community to read, no matter
where you are in your addiction cycle.
For those of
you on the outside looking in, perhaps worried sick about someone who is
harming themselves, this honest, probing, revealing look into the mind of a
masochist will hopefully help you reach out in a more understanding and
effective way.
Outline
CUTTING ADDICTION
As Powerful as a Narcotic
Not Easy to Stop
INTO A MASOCHIST’S MIND
The Idea to Cut Will Persist
You Want to Punish Yourself
On purpose or by Accident, the First Cut
It Hurts, but you Love the Pain
You Feel Something, Finally
ADDICTION INTENSIFIES
Now, You Can’t Stop
But Everything Gets Worse, Not Better
The Secret Comes Out
Therapy is Inevitable Now
Finally, you’re Not Cutting Anymore
You have your Life Back
