A Cutter Explains Cutting

Need advice?

I was exposed to cutting on Tumblr. It was a relatable community.

My mom would say, “You look like you just gave birth.” I was chubby; the “giant.” As a dancer, my figure was important. I’m tall; I was always at the back during choreography.

For three years, I starved myself, searched Instagram for tips to throw up.

I tried because I saw people do it.

I used my house key.

Before cutting, my head is chaotic.

After, I don’t feel heartbreak. I zone out and feel nothing for 2 to 3 hours. It’s quiet.

The first time was a few scratches. One of my seniors saw. I felt ashamed.

I bought a penknife. I cut wider and deeper when it stopped hurting. Scars higher up my arm are more obvious. I always wore a jacket over my uniform.

I avoided confrontation. No reason for cutting would be enough for them.

Cutting was difficult to control in public. And it was my only solution.

I felt connected to my penknife. Once, drunk, almost cutting, my friends tried taking it. I cried, “Just let me be!” My first thought after waking up the next day: my penknife. They returned it, and I felt better.

After my dad passed, my mom confessed how much cutting hurt her, more so without someone to work out problems with.

I reflected. I didn’t want to hurt her.

Getting rid of my penknife helped me move on.

When cutting stopped, binge eating and puking stopped. I could have continued, but I convinced myself otherwise.

I became more fun. I opened up to friends; something I was never able to do. When I was young, I was afraid of sharing problems. My mom instilled the idea that it would get me into trouble.

Was it a cry for help?

Maybe to my elder siblings. My elder brother talked sense into me.

Advice?

I enjoyed being destructive. I could go home and be fucking sad, and when I was in school I could be completely different. If I didn’t cut, I wouldn’t be me today. Just don’t kill yourself.