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