What You’ve Earned

Today I watched a small-minded little man fling ignorant comments out into the internets in regards to cutting.

Before i elaborate on this man’s idiocy, let me say…

Please don’t get me wrong. I don’t believe cutting to be a healthy coping mechanism in the slightest. For many people, cutting leads down a dangerous and self destructive road where, as happens with any addiction (and yes, I believe it to be a form of addiction), slowly but surely the body and mind start to need larger doses, bigger cuts, just more in order to get the release it was looking for.

Cutting is an addiction to feeling what everyone else feels naturally. What everyone else takes for granted.

Cutting is an addiction to feeling in control. To just, for a few seconds, be able to put the brakes on a plunge downward into the sort of depression that wipes every desire you’ve ever had straight out of your body. It is a twisted thing, but something which is the only barrier to a more drastic grab for the same control. And it is something I have personal experience, and personal struggles with.

And this man….
This man is proud that he has never cut.
Proud.
He says his body is a temple, and that he treats it as such.

Ohhhh. OHHH. Let me explain how screwed up that is.

First off, in my world, pride is something you earn. It comes out of struggle and dedication, through perseverance and an accomplishment that does not come easy.
It is something you achieve despite everything in the world beating your body down into the dirt.
Something you grasp, because when everything good in the world went to hell in a hand basket, you wrapped a fucking bungee chord around your waist and dived in after that shit.

Having clarified this, let me say…

Sir, you are not proud that you are not a cutter because you didn’t earn shit. Not a damn thing. You are not proud that you were born without a mental illness, because only a motherfucking moron thinks they had any say in how they came about. Unless you were, at one time, a tiny traffic guard holed up in your own father’s nut sack, directing which bits of DNA got through, and which didn’t, you haven’t done jack shit to earn any amount of pride in your mental status. You didn’t fight back the demons of insanity to grasp this glaringly limited outlook on life.

What you are, is thankful that you’ve never struggled with that kind of depression. You are lucky that you have a survival instinct, instead of a suicidal one. You are smug because of an overinflated sense of accomplishment that can only come from a deep rooted misunderstanding of how depression works.

How depression kills.

So, you’re body is a temple? Good for you. I’m glad you have such a copacetic relationship with your innards.

As for me, mine try to fuck me up on a regular basis. I have eyes that see dead children standing at the foot of my bed while I try to sleep. Children that cry all night, the kind of cry you can’t block out no matter how strongly you know it’s not real. I have a heart which shoots my blood pressure sky high, so that when I have panic attacks, I have shooting pains in my chest.

One day I’ll be having a real heart attack and I’ll just drop dead from assuming it was just my usual thing.

I have a brain that convinces me the world would be a happier place if I simply wasn’t in it. Which then, out of its unending helpfulness, gives me about twenty different scenarios which can make that exact thing happen.

And I can take drugs.
And I can go to therapy.
And I can cut
And sleep all day
And exercise
And refuse to sleep
And eat special foods with mood stabilizing qualities
And think positively
And use herbal remedies with fucking melatonin
I can get wasted!

And none of it means shit when I pop open a bottle of pills and think… Just take one more.
And one more…
And one more…

So, until you’ve been there. Until you’ve swallowed a bottle of pills and you’re puking your guts up and your limbs are on fire and your muscles won’t stop spasming and your fiancé and his friend are carrying you to the bathroom because you can’t move your legs

And all you can think is that you wish you’d taken enough to die.

And you still get up the next morning and go to work…

Until then, you self righteous asshole, you can take your perceived mental superiority and shove it straight up your “temple’s” dimly lit back door.

Because that is all you’ve earned.

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