I Am Cutting: A Letter To Mom
This is a letter written to a mom from a teen daughter’s perspective.
(TW: Self-Harm)
Dear Mom,
I am sorry. I am so sorry.
It hurts. I push the pain down, just like when you push a ball underwater in the pool. I hold it there, but it pushes back, and I can’t hold it down anymore.
I am sorry. I am trying my best. I want to be the best, but I am not. Everyone is so happy and confident. Everyone knows so much, and I know nothing. I try, but it doesn’t matter. It hurts.
I am sorry. I can’t tell you everything. You think I can, and you say you are here, but you don’t know and you would never understand. It hurts.
I am supposed to be nice and kind, but I am not always nice and kind.
I know I am supposed to be grateful but I also want to be somewhere else,
I want to be someone else, I want to be free.
I feel like I am in a cage.
The world is looking, and I can’t mess up.
I can’t mess up.
My thinking is so messed up.
I push it down. Don’t think like that. You know better.
I am not better.
I will never be better.
Mom, help. No, you can’t help. Nobody will understand. Nobody else feels like this.
I have “everything,” yet I feel that I have nothing.
I should be more appreciative. I know I am entitled.
It hurts. The world seems to be moving so fast, and I can’t keep up.
I can’t keep up with my schedule. I can’t keep up because I can always do more.
I am not sure I can.
It hurts, and I push it down.
The girls are mean.
I am supposed to fit in but I do not.
Nobody is like me. Nobody thinks like me.
If anyone knew who I really was, the things I think.
Maybe if I was skinnier.
Maybe if my legs were longer.
Maybe if my skin was different.
Maybe if my hair wasn’t this way.
Maybe if I dressed better.
Maybe it would be better.
Mom, it hurts.
I should be more grateful for what I have, but I am not.
I do not always think like a good girl. I can’t tell you that.
I am not as smart as everyone else.
I can’t pay attention. I drift away into the world in my head.
I do not always hear. It feels like so much, and I can’t get started.
I can’t finish. It is so hard.
Mom, it hurts.
I hate the look on your face, the look of disappointment.
I hate disappointing you.
I am nothing, yet I need to be everything.
How do I do that? How do you do that? How do they do that?
Do more. Be more.
This pain. It hurts my whole body. I feel it everywhere. My hair hurts. I am not being dramatic. It hurts. I read that you are supposed to “get it out,” but walking or running doesn’t help. Screaming into my pillow doesn’t help. Nothing helps.
It hurts. I am sorry. It will not go away.
It feels like I could explode, but the pain also tightens my heart. It is suffocating me. It squeezes my heart. I can’t breathe.
Mom, I can’t breathe.
Sometimes, I pick at a spot. I scratch it. It feels good. Better. I scratch at it some more. It feels better. It feels good. I scratch it more. If feels better. It feels good. I want to feel better.
I take something sharp. Sometimes it is a razor. Sometimes a paper clip. Whatever works. Whatever is close. I am desperate to feel better. I push into my skin and the pain rushes there. All of the pain is in one spot. I push in and slide along my skin. The pain.. all goes there. Sometimes I push for blood. The blood gives me release.
It releases me from pain. Sometimes, I do not go for blood.
My heart loosens. My breath slows down. It feels better. I need better. Yes. This works. I will only do it once.
Oh my god, I am crazy. Crazy people do this. Do I want to die? Once in a while, I just want to be somewhere else. This takes me somewhere else. Somewhere where it doesn’t hurt.
Mom, I am sorry. Please do not call me crazy. I made it go away.
Love, Me