The desire/need/craving to cut has been strong of late. It seems to arise when I feel like I am not in control of my environment, my body, or my relationship. I had a strong urge to dig out my razor on Sunday in the aftermath of Joe’s angry outburst, but ate french fries instead (worse).
I contemplated cutting again on Tuesday when I got home from my doctor’s appointment for the sleep study, knowing full well that though I have upcoming appointments, chances are the fix for my sleep problems is a long way off. I don’t know how I will wait it out.
I wanted to cut when I woke up early Thursday morning and felt my bones sobbing for rest, but my brain could do nothing but jump excitedly in place, mocking me and my exhaustion. If I had not been paralyzed by my weariness, I would have sliced off my head so to escape the mania.
I needed to cut last night when I crawled home after yoga, knowing the choice before me had already been made, that I must take the pills in order to… live? Reclaiming my territory became my only desire. But it will have to wait for tomorrow, as I am too tired to go on. And so, I slept.
I didn’t cut, in any of the situations. But my question is why? And what’s wrong with it? It would have instantly alleviated those crushing feelings of hopelessness and lack of agency, I would have felt calm and competent and controlled. It doesn’t hurt anybody else, it’s my body, and withstanding pain has long been valued by many cultures as a sign of strength. Indeed, inflicting pain upon oneself in the name of bravery or beauty is celebrated, so long as life is not lost.
So, instead of asking why cut, I will instead ask, why not?
