scars...

I believe it changed for me when I realized that I'd been waiting for the "want" to cut myself to go away. But I realized, just like recovered alcoholics who never stop wanting the alcohol, I would always want to cut myself again. I had to learn to say no to my addiction and find other ways of coping. Even as I take the first few tentative steps toward stopping, there is a part of me that doesn't want to stop. It will take all of my willpower to never cut myself again, but I know that I can do it.

dealing with the marks & remarks | what i say

- dealing with the marks & remarks -

I am sure all of you, at one time or another, and usually more often than not, have gotten the wide-eyed, taken aback, gasp, "What happened to you?!".

They are referring, of course, to your scars.

If you are a recovering cutter (as I am) or someone who still cuts, you bear the markings of your deeds. My left arm has 8 deep, bright pink and very visible scars. There are many other ones, faded and white. My right arm bears the worst of my pain...18 viscious-looking welts that stand out like a beacon for all to see....proclaiming me to be a cutter. I still find this question a hard one to answer because inevitably most people are going to look at you as if you are truly some creature from Mars when you say simply, "I cut myself" or "I used to cut myself."

The thing is, most people know nothing of this problem. It is not as wide known, or as "accepted", a problem as anorexia, child abuse, manic-depression, etc. The vast majority of people on this Earth have never even heard of someone "cutting themselves". Ignorance spawns hate. We must spread awareness of our problem. I am tired of trying to explain my scars away to people who will not or can not understand.

I have chosen to tell people "these are my battle scars". I feel, in the ongoing war I fight with myself, these were the battles I lost. Like any other addiction, I fight off the urge to cut myself again every day. The war never ends. Those of you who hurt yourselves know this. Just because I have chosen to not cut anymore does not mean I don't still want to all of the time. In this war, you lose some, you win some. My scars are battles lost. Don't shy away from the questions. Tell people the truth. Tell them they are your self-inflicted scars. Be proud that you are fighting to stop this terrible addiction. Stand up for those everywhere that still are fighting to stop, and are still hurting themselves to cope. It starts here.

My name is Shanna, and I self injure...

- what i say -

Here is an entry from my journal where I made a decision on what I would tell people when they asked about my scars. I would love to hear what You tell people when they ask about your scars. What is your answer? Email me and I will add them here for those that do not know what to say.

A whole list of ideas, suggestions, and things you can say to questions about your scars appears on this Ask MetaFilter page: How to explain self-inflicted scars to co-workers?.

I also have always wanted to say, "I used to juggle knives with the circus. I wasn't very good."; I have yet to do so, however.

4 February 2000
Friday 8:00 p.m.
I've always pondered over a good answer to give when asked, as I always am, about the scars on my arms. It should be an answer with meaning, yet evasive enough not to give the impression that I'm a total nutcase. It came to me tonight, as I walked back in the cold, dark at twilight from to store to my friend's house. What I have always called them. Battle scars. "Battle scars," I'll say in a tone that leaves no opening for further explanation. If probed further, I will tell the truth. "They are from the constant war being fought between my heart and mind; my emotions and my rational mind. These are from the battles where emotions won." Battle scars. Inflicted upon myself when I had no other way to cope - in times of extreme anger or utter despair. When my mind could not cope and the screaming in my head could be quieted no other way. When nothing my rational mind could conjure up would stop the hurt, ease the pain. The pain inside. The pain that made the world black, the tears endlessly flow, and my heart wrench, and want to explode. The fearful, shaking, panicked, desperate, anxiety-ridden, sweating, heart-hammering pain. Inside. I didn't know how to deal with it when it got that bad; couldn't cope. So I made it real. I drew the pain outside, made it visible, made it physical. That I can handle - that I know how to deal with. And how it calmed me! As if the pain flowed out of me with the dark, red blood as it trickled down my skin. It felt so good when the pain came - it made everything alright - like one of my favorite songs; one of "my songs" - "She Talks to Angels" by The Black Crowes. The pain washes away with the blood. It doesn't go away - but at least I can cope with it now.