Cutting through the shame

• Published in: Canadian Medical Association journal (CMAJ) Vol. 188; no. 17-18; pp. 1265 - 1266
• Main Author: Lewis, Stephen P
• Format: Journal Article
• Language: English
• Published: Canada Joule Inc 06.12.2016; CMA Impact, Inc
• Subjects: Adult Survivors of Child Abuse - psychology; Bullying; Cicatrix; Depression - psychology; Humanities; Humans; Pain; Psychic trauma in children; Self Concept; Self destructive behavior; Self-Injurious Behavior - psychology; Skin; Suicidal Ideation; Violence - psychology
• ISSN: 0820-3946; 1488-2329
• DOI: 10.1503/cmaj.160119

Over time, my efforts to conceal my inner pain took a toll and manifested into bouts of depression, each one becoming more and more severe. As any person in my condition would, I desperately sought relief, even if it was short-lived. For me, relief came through cutting myself with razor blades and other sharp objects. I was 15 when I cut myself for the first time. I was in my basement, alone and feeling distraught. I saw a box cutter and, without thinking, grabbed it and slowly scraped it against the skin of the outside of my hand. I don't know why I did it. Seeing the rawness of my broken skin inexplicably provided a sense of relief. It helped me "see" the awfulness I felt inside - an awfulness for which I had no words. I was 20 at the time and in the midst of my undergraduate degree. Living away from home, I had been depressed for most of the academic year. Nighttime was especially difficult. Depression made it impossible to sleep and not dwell on the past. I was sitting alone at my desk in my one-bedroom apartment. The only light came from my computer screen, which I stared at blankly. The darkness, like it so often did, elicited painfully vivid flashbacks. I saw a younger but forlorn version of myself: scared, crying and screaming "Please stop!" The image played over and over again. With it came a barrage of messages: "you're worthless" ... "you're nothing" ... "you're weak and pathetic." The messages, like my despair, became progressively more intense with each passing moment. I felt I was suffocating. My vision became increasingly tunnelled. No one experience or set of experiences defines an individual. Self-injury has never defined me. I was and am not a "self-injurer" or "cutter." These are descriptors that label and, at times, pathologize people by reducing them to a behaviour. The residual scarring I bear on my body does not represent the person I am. Rather, my scars are symbolic of inner fortitude and serve as an aidemémoire, telling me I made it. At a time when I had no voice, and no way to allay the tumultuous storm of emotions I felt each day, self-injury made sense. As much as I was ostensibly destroying myself, cutting served to save my life.