A friend of mine texted me last night. She's one of my favorite teenagers. She wanted to know if she could ask a question. I encouraged it and said yes.
"Why'd you stop cutting?" That was the question. She's asked me numerous times before, and every time I give her a different answer. But, they are true answers.
I started thinking about every time I've "stopped" and why.
First time. A neighborhood friend of mine, whom had the same birthday as me, noticed my arm and asked me about it. I told him I was bored, and he told me to come get him if I ever get that bored again. I didn't want to make things awkward, so I just quit.
Time passed; he moved elsewhere.
I'd say I was foolish. Not because of the actual actions, but because I'd create them in obvious places. Like my knuckles. A close friend of mine had found out a little, and then I shared more. I felt safer with her. I knew that she had also cut in the past; that comforted me. When I'd tell her or show her, she seemed to hurt to. I cared for her, and when I saw that it hurt her, I wanted to stop.
Again, time passed. Comfort became fear. Guilt and stress eventually got to me, and I decided to do it now and again. Her new reaction was angered annoyance. This usually didn't help. I decided to add it to my stress and guilt. Eventually just deciding not to share anymore.
Life moved along again. One morning I woke up, and my knife was gone. I usually slept with it, just in case I needed it. Not for protection. A good blanket can hide a lot of things. This knife was perfect. Just open, apply pressure, and then pull. Repeat two and three until tired, or content. The night before I let indifference tug on me, and I left it open before falling asleep. I'm thinking my dad found it open before I woke up and took it... Or it's hidden somewhere deep within my love seat. I'd tried some kitchen knives afterward, but they just didn't seem right.
Later on Shannon started asking people to share testimonies, once per service. She asked me. I agreed, but didn't know what to say. It felt right to share that part of my past. I was definitely afraid. I didn't want the church people to think I was weird. I didn't want them to not talk or jest with me, because they'd be afraid I would take it the wrong way. In between praise(the faster songs) and worship(the slower songs) we took an announcement break and I was given the chance to share. I stated that a relationship with Jesus was just the start of a journey; not the end. I shared that to cope with guilt and stuff, I'd hurt myself. I also shared that I usually kept it to myself. Then I stated some scriptures and said that they encouraged me to quit. They did.
Shannon then said an appropriate analogy about masks, that she hadn't even been aware, and then continued with the service. One church friend in particular asks me now and then how I'm doing about it and I answer honestly. Other church friends have said that they've felt more willing to share things after hearing my testimony. And then others have spoken to me about the same struggle in their lives.
Time again went on. This is the last time I recall. I had overly upset a very dear friend of mine. At first I didn't think I did it on purpose, but after further evaluation, it seemed like I did. This gave me an unpleasant feeling about myself. Using my great sense of right and wrong, I scratched, and scratched, and scratched a few spots on/onto my arm.
That was, I want to say, many months, but less than a year, ago. My current reason for stopping? I have absolutely no desire to do it. Some time ago I realized a bit more of how intimate God's love for me is. It feels so nicely, I feel like I'm more than lovable, and act that way toward myself. I wish I had verses to share that would help you understand, and well, I probably do, but I think it would be better for you to search and find ones for yourself.
But, being open with people that I care for, that also care for me; being distanced from my usual means of cutting; and true love, seem to have been my biggest reasons for stopping.
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