Posted: Friday, November 30, 2012 6:05:55 PM
Cut By Patricia McCormick saved my life and stopped my bad habit, giving me a new and good habit of journaling.
Cut. The title of a life-changing book and what a teenager named Cali did. She was forced into a rehabilitation center called Shady Pines, referred to as “Sick Minds” by the patients because she cut when her emotions overwhelmed her. She wasn’t ready to die, but she wanted a release. In her mind cutting wasn’t a problem, it was a solution. When she met a proud cutter (Cali cut in secret) named Amanda, she realized what it meant to cut. She realized that she wanted help, wanted to stop. She cut because she felt trapped, overwhelmed and alone.
I felt that same way in October 2008, my sister had committed suicide on the 27th and I was depressed and angry because she broke her promise to always be there for me. On April 21st, my 11th birthday, my dad died of heart failure. I started to resent my birthday and my mother after she let the doctors unplug his life support, but she had no choice. I wanted to run away, cry all the time for no apparent reason, and felt trapped and alone. I read Cut upon suggestion by my friend, a “reformed” cutter, but I wasn’t “reformed.”
I had saved white rose petals from my sister’s funeral and had spread them out over my unused desk . When I cut over them, seeing how they greedily soaked up my precious blood made me wonder why people cut. The bloodstained petals made me think that red roses seemed unnatural compared to pure and perfect white roses, which lead to a new theory that, along with old ones, inspired one of my stories.
As a pre-teen, Alice in Wonderland made me wonder if people really painted white roses red. My next theory came after reading the Greek myth about a man, who was beautiful and vain, who was tricked into killing himself, which lead to the creation of the Narcissus flower. My cutting addiction created my current one. Maybe people were cutting themselves to create red roses. Maybe they thought they didn’t deserve their own blood, that something as beautiful and perfect as white roses did. Cut helped me develop something abstract and beautiful from something pointless, morbid, and dark.
Cut literally saved my life. I had cut in dangerous places on major arteries and veins. I wasn’t about to stop. I thought, like Cali, cutting got rid of my problems, but it was all temporary. My mom hated confrontation, especially emotional confrontation, and I thought I couldn’t talk to anyone. When I wasn’t feeling alone, I wasn’t feeling anything. I felt fake, unreal, and that all the deaths were fake. I only thought about school, which became obvious when I dimwittedly exposed my cutting scars to my mom. I got help though, thanks to Cali. Cut is still part of my library and every time I feel like going back to cutting, I visit Cali at Sick Minds with the help of Patricia McCormick.