Thursday, August 14, 2014

Cutting

Cutting.
We are told not to cut by people we hardly know. The people closest to us cannot know. Some of us don't have anyone. They tell us to ask someone for help when we feel like hurting ourselves, like it might significantly affect our health or kill us. When that moment comes that we need someone, anyone, the most, we cannot face them.
How do I tell someone that I can't cope from minute to minute? How do I let them know, that nothing they say or do will ever make me feel better? That every moment is pure agony?
The first time, it's all right. They will hug us, and pretend that everything will be okay just because they are there. It may even help the first several times, but eventually we reach another breaking moment. We are tired of being seen with tears streaming down our faces and makeup smudged under our eyes. We are tired of trying to tell the same story for the millionth time and not being understood. We are tired of trying to get by like normal people when we are everything but. We are tired of expectations to do better, to be better, and to be someone we are not.
They give us things to do to help us cope so that we don't turn to cutting. Take a walk. Hang out with friends. Even drawing in red marker as a substitute. It works, but it doesn't last long either. Some days we are so destroyed by our own emotions that it's all we can do to get out of bed. Some days, we are fighting to stay whole minute to minute, and our anxieties trap us in a temporary safety net. We fear that if we move, if we step outside, everything might come crashing down. The red marker is like a taunt to us. It's the same color but the resemblance stops there. The chemicals that our body releases when we are physically harmed won't respond to crayola. A marker won't hold back the rising emotions.
Some people misunderstand. They think that cutting will end up in suicide. Cutting is still coping, maybe not good coping but... Suicide is giving up. Even if a knife slipped and cut deep into our wrists, it's not likely we would die.
Some people say we cut for attention, and sometimes we do. Sometimes, we need someone to recognize the desperate cry for help, but we also need someone to realize that it's serious and that there is a right and wrong way to handle things. We are still proud underneath everything, and to be perceived as desperate can be the only thing holding us back from screaming out loud.
When all else fails, they offer medications. They offer mental hospitals. Everything is a means to an end. Everything, is a way to try and make us, like them. But the truth is we are different. We were made differently. Not broken, not damaged, just different. We are not something that needs to be fixed.
Because, the reality is, depression cannot be cured. Anxiety cannot be cured. Bipolar cannot be cured. All of these invisible disorders that we suffer from, are part of us for life
Some medications don't always work and most don't work long term. For some, like me, medication does more harm than good. A lot of us cannot hold a job and have no one to turn to, and therefore cannot afford medical help such as medications. Mental hospitals only cause extreme avoidance of asking for help. When we crave nothing more than to have some control in our lives, the last place to put us, is in a place where they will forcefully rip that very freedom from our grasp.
Every solution they offer us only seems to hurt us more. Each time we are given hope only to have it fall through is like a blow when we are already suffering.
After everything, after every possible solution has been exhausted, we are left hopeless and right back where we started. No matter where we go or what happens to us, the only constant is that we still have our bodies, and our bodies can always be hurt. Friendless, homeless, and hopeless, we are still left with one way to cope, and I took it.
Maybe this isn't true for everyone, but I know I am not the only one out there to feel this way.
This is why we cut.

No comments:

Post a Comment