I Tried to Talk

 

 I tried to talk…to speak the words

of the pain I was feeling

the pain that cuts like a knife

the pain that is so intense that I can’t breathe

the pain that comes and goes

hurting so very much when it comes

I spoke the words…I told them how I felt

but it fell on deaf ears

every word

ignored…

no one paid attention

I was looking for comfort

for someone to understand

to console me and let me cry…

instead came words of a different comfort

a comfort I wasn’t looking for

I didn’t need to hear those words…

that everything was going to be okay

that the world wasn’t going to end

that we would make it

I would make it

I needed someone to hold me

to hear what I had to say

what I needed to say

So I picked up the knife

felt the rough texture of the handle

looked at the blade

the little grooves

and I drug it across my skin

my eye on the tip of the knife

as I made a mark

it got longer

and longer

and longer

all the while feeling no pain

couldn’t feel the knife

tearing across my skin

The pain was gone

I felt better

relieved

so I put the knife away

until the next time

I need to make someone

understand the pain

the pain that cuts like a knife

knife

across my skin

leaving a mark

to show my pain

to the world

Yes, I am a cutter. I'm just going to put it out there. This is a poem I wrote after the first time I cut, the summer after my first year of college. I had gotten some very painful news and one afternoon, I had cried until there were no tears left, but the heaviness inside was still there. The cutting was a release for that pain inside. That's what cutting has always been for me - a physical release for the emotional pain inside. I explained it to a friend once as an actual pressure that I feel inside and cutting is the only way to make it go away.

Why put this out there now? Partly because I've heard some misconceptions of 'cutters' in recent weeks, partly because this is one area of my life where I need support but won't get it unless I make it known, and partly because I want to cut at this actual moment and I'm hoping that writing about it will take the urge away.

The biggest misconception I have heard about someone who cuts is that they want to die and it's a warning sign of suicide. In most cases, that isn't true. In my case it certainly isn't. I've never cut with the intention of cutting deep enough for it to do any kind of permanent damage. Most of the time, I cut where no one can see, somewhere that I can hide with clothing. If I do cut in a place where it will be visible, I never draw attention to it or make a big deal out of it. In the times a cut has been visible, no one has ever commented on it, because I make sure it looks like a cut I could have gotten just doing every day stuff. I don't cut deeply, usually only enough to cause a few drops of blood. I know some people who cut and for them, the blood is what helps calm them down. For me, it's not about blood, it's about the physical pain. I can go months between cuts and then there are times where I cut more often. Like so many other things in my life, it goes in phases.

As usual, when I put something very vulnerable and personal out there in cyberworld, I'm scared of how this will be received. Not many people know about this issue in my life. God has blessed me, though, with an amazing friend who has been very understanding about the cutting. While she doesn't agree with it and wishes that I wouldn't do it, she understands why I do it and is always there to listen when I share with her of a recent cut. I have gotten some more negative reactions from others in the past and honestly, I just stopped telling them when I would do it. But I want to just put it out there. It's part of who I am. Is it healthy? No. Are there different things I could do in those times? Yes, I've tried them. Cutting just seems to be the only thing that works. Do I think God approves? No. I do think He loves me and is still compassionate and hears the cries of my heart when I give into the temptation.

So there it is. I am a cutter.