Psycho Suzy Scissorhands
Basically, it’s your typical story: Girl is picked on from grades 2 to 9, girl gains weight and is already predisposed to being excessively depressed. Repressing as much of the torment from the other children as I possibly could and after having lost a group of friends whom I had had for a few years, transferring schools and starting at a gym, I still had to deal with being angry, bitter, resentful, and a general lack of trust for mankind as a whole. Lost faith for religion since the kids there picked on me too. So then on to grade 11, the end thereof, get some somewhat shocking info from a friend, am having weight issues and generally can not take life in general. Since childhood I’ve had a fascination with sharp objects. So one day I’m sitting in my room and I see this thing on one of those fun CBC shows, and it was about people who hurt themselves. I had never actually gave it any thought, so I went and picked up my pocket knife, of which was never sharp in anyway, and picked at the back of my wrist. Since that day I have been going at my arms with razors like a psycho with a knife. Maybe not that badly but some days it was. So from then on into grade 12 I was hiding my fun new secret from my friends. It was always my intention to give myself a way of relieving stress, it gave me a rush, an adrenaline high, the feeling you get when you emerge from under water and take that first breath. I did tell a couple people, one in hopes that I would stop once they knew, but we never really talked about it much after that. So grade 12 saw the rise of more cutting, more depression about a lot of things, and to top it off I got some very bad news about my genes. I can’t have normal kids is the gist of it, and in a rage of anger from a certain situation that is too long to explain involving a play and having to do all the work for it, I told my mom, and once again had a hard time explaining it to her. So I tried to give it up for the summer, and was doing good till around November 2004, in December I had a boyfriend and that gave me incentive to stop, until of course he broke it off and here I am 2005 in April and I’ve been doing it again. But not for him, not for anyone, just for me so I am not stressed. My next step; make a deal with a friend that if I stop then I will get a black band tattoo on the most cut arm and never do it again. Or as much. At least it’s something, right? My art expresses my cutting and I suspect it’s a cry for help that no one is listening to, but I’m not so much concerned about it. I cut because I like it, it’s plain, it’s simple and to some it is morbid but that’s who I am, a cutter and it’s taken me two years to come out to myself. What I have to comfort me, and have always had is my music, no one trully knows what The Beatles and Wings have meant to me, it’s the difference between life and death for me. I don’t ever want anyone to go through what I’ve had to endure in my life, or to think the way I do that cutting is OK and that it’s part of who I am. It is. I am a cutter. And I am OK with that.