Lost inside; can’t find. Addicted. Help.

“I seat myself on the bed, scissors and tissue at the ready.  This time it is not because I am sad.  It is only because I am frustrated…I see old, raised scars on my right shoulder.  I press the scissors into my skin about an inch below the lowest scar.  Quickly, I drag the blade across my white skin.  Two more times in the same spot.”

Tracy wrote this in January of her junior year; it is just one of the numerous journal entries she has composed since she began cutting herself as a high school freshman.  Now 20 years old, Tracy admits that at times she still feels the urge to cut and sometimes she does.  From the beginning, it was never just one thing that led her to cut, but rather a build up of insecurities.

Her father was physically and verbally abusive in her early childhood.  “We still didn’t have a very good relationship,” Tracy said.  “I was worried about schoolwork, about fitting in, about my friends, about sports, about my parents, about my father hating me.”

Tracy’s sophomore English teacher first approached her about the growing number of cuts on her arms.  At the time, Tracy would always give a simple explanation, such as “I was carrying wood in for the woodstove” or “my cat scratched me.”  Over the course of the year, however, Tracy had established a trusting relationship with her teacher. 

One day after school in early April, Tracy’s teacher asked if the cuts were self-inflicted.  Turned away from her, Tracy said, “Maybe.”  While she never would have sought help on her own accord, Tracy realized in this moment that someone deeply cared for her.  “I remember the look of disappointment in her eyes that quickly disappeared, and became one of compassion,” she said.  “I very nearly told her my entire life in a nutshell, and she simply sat there and listened for almost two hours.”

When she told Tracy it was her official responsibility as a teacher to tell someone, Tracy was terrified.  “I didn’t want my parents to know, my guidance counselor, the nurse…I didn’t want anyone to know other than her,” she said.  “I kept trying to tell her that it was okay, that I would be okay, that my parents didn’t have to know.”

But within the week, Tracy agreed that she would find a way to tell her parents.  When she did, her teacher would be by her side.  “It took me a few minutes, but I managed to finally spit the words out.  ‘I’ve been cutting myself.’  They were blunt, and seemed more painful to say than it actually was to split my skin open with a knife.” 

In telling her parents, she also agreed to seek professional help.  But after seeing her primary care physician and a psychiatrist, Tracy continued to resist.  Her parents looked elsewhere for additional guidance.  Talking about her personal experiences with someone she knew was hard enough without having to tell a complete stranger too.

Ultimately, Tracy was required to meet with a psychologist on a weekly or bi-weekly basis.  While she would continue to hold back, she eventually discovered that her therapy sessions contained some value.  “I liked that [my therapist] didn’t judge me, and that she never told me to stop,” she said.  “She understood that it was more of an addiction than a simple act that I could be pulled away from.”

Today, Tracy feels that she has progressed, but is not yet able to move beyond her experiences.  She believes that all she can do is her best to cope with the problems and urges to cut as they arise.  Tracy also finds solace in supporting others who have dealt with similar struggles by encouraging them to seek and accept help.

“I admit that I have lost parts of me, and that I can’t get them back.  As awful as some of my experiences have been, I can’t go back and change them, and I wouldn’t if I could,” she said.  “Because of this, I can help other people.  But I remember what it is like to not have anyone to talk to, or anyone who truly understands, and that is what I have been trying to give other people.”