Articles: A Secret Life of Self-Abuse
By Shannon O'Brien
What would lead someone to cut herself? One woman tells her story.
Aug. 28, 2000 -- I was 15 years old, home alone on a Thursday evening. I was still wearing my high school uniform. The phone rang and I answered. It was Ethan. "I have to tell you something," he began. "I'm back together with Allison -- I'm really sorry."
As he spoke, I felt my heart plunge into my stomach, breaking apart on the way down. I sat there for a while in silence. Finally, I calmly rose and walked into the kitchen, where I went straight to the utensil drawer.
I knew what I was looking for -- the X-acto knife.
Holding the knife just like I'd hold a pencil, I made three straight slashes on my lower left leg -- 1-2-3. Just like that. I watched as the blood surfaced, seeping through the slits. I watched the blood pool and drip with an immense feeling of satisfaction and relief. Then I moved on, continuing to slice my skin.
First my left thigh, then over to my right leg, where I made 10 more zigzag cuts on my shin and thigh. Each new wound was deeper than the one before it. I was trying to see how deep I could go, all the while somehow conscious that I shouldn't go too deep or I might need stitches or really hurt myself.
But despite that awareness, it was as if the whole time I was cutting, I wasn't really there. I was somewhere in the periphery, watching this other girl puncture her skin and tear at her own body.
After I finished, I carefully cleaned my wounds with hydrogen peroxide. I remember having an eerie sense of pride about what I had just done and swelling up with an odd hubris at my power. Then, as if a hypnotist had just snapped his fingers to wake me up, I was suddenly able to see the reality of my handiwork: My legs were tracked with marks, 18 cuts in all, bright red and oozing blood.
I felt sick to my stomach and plunged the knife into the sofa cushion. My mind raced, Oh my God, what did I do? I pulled the knife out of the couch, threw it in the drawer, and ran upstairs to my bathroom, crying hysterically and screaming. "Oh, no. How could I have done this? What's wrong with me? I'm crazy. I'm crazy ... "
After that first horrifying night, I tried to stop, but over the next few years there were other episodes, usually the result of a relationship gone bad. I thought of my cutting as a way to permanently remember each lost love. Occasionally I imagined that I was part of some primitive tribe in which members are branded when a loved one dies or leaves.
Each time the knife or nail clippers was poised over my skin, I longed to see blood. Watching myself bleed was inexplicably satisfying. To simply pound on my thighs, or even to scratch myself, would not have been enough. I had to make myself bleed. In an odd way, it felt good: It was a way of letting the hurt and anxiety drain out. As for the pain, I felt very little.
But once I'd stopped, it was only a matter of minutes until my fogged state of mind lifted and I saw just what I had done. Then I'd painstakingly slather antibacterial cleanser on my wounds so they would heal better. Yet I neglected to tend to the emotional wounds inside.
I felt ashamed of my cutting. It wasn't until I was halfway through college that I was able to explore my problem and discuss my feelings. I began seeing a therapist and learned that I was not alone in my behavior -- that there are many other "cutters" out there. We examined why I chose to deal with my heartache through self-injury.
I come from a family that often relied on alcohol to cope with pain or difficulties, where drinking was a means of shutting out life's problems. I discovered cutting was a similar escape.
Today, I don't self-mutilate. I haven't cut myself in years, although I admit that I have fantasized about doing it. But I haven't. I do my best to deal with my emotions in a healthy manner and, thankfully, instead of feeling frightened and ashamed, I'm finally feeling whole.
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