Cutting

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The kids run outside to play on the trampoline.  They could spend hours out there playing games.  However, if Leesy gets even the smallest scratch on her, she is whimpering and limping into the house for a band aid.

Unfortunately, what my kids do by accident, I do on purpose. I cut and mine is more than a little scratch.  It started out as a suicide attempt.  However, after some therapy and medication, I reined back my intentions.  Instead of trying to end my life, cutting became my coping mechanism.

If I am triggered, it’s usually by some form of rejection.  I am flooded with strong and furious emotions.  It’s my PTSD kicking in hard.  My first response is to cut.  Those endormphines flood my system with each cut and soon my system evens out.

Unfortunately, those “feel good,” endorphins are addictive.  I need more and more to feel “OK.”  Before I know it, I’ve broken glass and covered most of my body in more serious cuts.

Next is shame.  I don’t want anyone to know.  I don’t want anyone to see.  I avoid questions.  I wear long sleeves.  More often than not, the shame of cutting gets so intense that I deal with the emotions by cutting more.  Extremely counterproductive.

Somehow I have to stop.  More times than not, I’ve had to be hospitalized.  Lately though, I’ve exercised enough self control to use other coping strategies to break the ugly cycle of cutting.

I am choosing to hope.  There are better days ahead.

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