[A/N: Originally published 22/1/2009. One of the few things I've ever written that I feel straightforwardly good about - AK, 18/7/10]
I cut myself. I am a cutter. I am not a Cutter. I have other and better ways to define myself. I refuse to be an object of pity or charity. I refuse to be victimised. I refuse to be patronised. I do not believe my situation can be adequately expressed with a bit of orange ribbon. I do not want to write love on my arms. Self-harm is neither beautiful nor tragic. It’s just something that I do in order to feel better. Each scar does not tell a story; there are too many of them for me to assign a narrative to each one anyway. I do not need to recover my life; as long as I’m still breathing I still have it. I am not the punchline to a shitty joke about emo. I do not need to frame my problems in grandiose terms. I do not hurt myself to see if I still feel. I am not a song lyric. Every tear does not tell a story, because I don’t cry when I’m cutting myself. I will not pretend that no-one else can understand me. I will not cast my self-injury as rebellion. I will not take ‘artistic’ black-and-white photos of myself looking moody. I will not photograph my cuts. I will not be ashamed of my scars; I am proud the rest of me is still there despite them. I do not need people to tell me that I am not alone, or that everything will be OK if I accept Jesus. Jesus has nothing to do with this, or anything else for that matter. I do not hurt myself so others can’t. Life is not pain. It is not a girl thing. The marks on my arms will not ‘haunt me for eternity’.
Love is not the movement.
I will not make a brand out of a symptom.
