Tag: cutting

What bullying does to brilliance

saradobiebauer

There’s this teenager I know. She’s brilliant, way mature for her age. She reads books I read and discusses them with a level of intellect and understanding that never fails to amaze. Let’s call her Emily. Then, I received the news yesterday …

Due to suicide speak, cutting, and bulimia, Emily has been placed in a special care facility. She’s only thirteen. When asked what caused all this, Emily admits it was bullying.

Once upon a time, Emily dated the middle school star. He was an athlete and popular kid, whereas Emily was quiet, snarky, and smart. She only recently discovered her preference for girls. In fact, Emily broke up with Mr. Popularity to date a girl, but beware the delicate egos of teenage boys.

Emily’s ex-boyfriend built an Instagram account for the sole purpose of terrorizing her. Via that account, he sent message after message:

You’re ugly.

You’re fat.

You’re going to hell.

Sadly, Emily started to believe this boy’s vitriol, and although she probably had some simmering depression issues already (as do many girls going through puberty), this bullying pushed her into a deep, dark hole where suicide seemed the best recourse.

The eating disorder flourished, too. Emily began counting the amount of carrots she ate. She started watching her mother cook dinner, making sure she didn’t use too much butter. Even when she did eat, Emily soon disappeared to purge. She lost thirty pounds.

Eventually, the cruel Instagram account was discovered, and the middle school principal kindly asked Mr. Popularity to stop harassing Emily. The principal spoke to the boy’s parents but not Emily’s. Apparently, Emily wasn’t important enough to enter the discussion. I’m sure the principal assumed she would be fine. A little bit of bullying? No big deal.

Well, she’s not fine. Her parents can’t leave her alone for fear of what she might do. She spends her days at the care center on a strict diet, surrounded by 12-18-year-old kids like her. They attend support groups and talk through their problems. Emily hopes to return to normal school by the end of March.

But what awaits her then? More bullying? Will Mr. Popularity come back for more? Will the principal acknowledge the bullying? Will the principal care? Will anyone care?

A couple weeks ago, a local sixth grader committed suicide by slitting her wrists. This was not a passive attempt; this was violent dedication. I don’t know why she chose to end her life, but I do wonder how a sixth grader arrived in such a dark place.

It seems like a vague broad stroke to blame society or social media, but I don’t know where else to look. When I was in sixth grade, I didn’t know what suicide was. I was most concerned with my grades, not my mental health. Shit, I didn’t know what “mental health” was. Kids today do. They’ve become experts at being sad, confused, and sometimes cruel.

I’m scared for them. I want to hug all of them, especially Emily as they treat the sores in her throat from months of purging and keep her away from sharp objects. This little girl has so much promise—a truly amazing youth—and some dumb idiot bully robbed her joy and distorted her self-image.

I don’t have answers. I do think about that old CSNY song … “Teach your children well.” Mr. Popularity might have earned a little slap on the wrist, but I doubt he understands the full ramifications of his actions. I’m sure he doesn’t know the destruction he caused, but maybe if he did, he would stop bullying instead of moving on to the next victim.

Similarly, it appears discussing mental health needs to happen early. When I was in elementary school a hundred years ago, we never talked about depression, anxiety, or eating disorders. Maybe we should, just so kids can understand that there is help if they’re sad. However, flip that coin, and educating them early might impart the knowledge to hurt themselves. How much do we want our kids to know anyway? How early are we willing to lose that innocence?

It’s all just a mess. I wish I knew what to do. I wish I could help Emily—and I do try, as best as I can, but it’s not enough. Cutting can be perceived as an addiction, and we all know addicts won’t get well unless they make that choice; other people can’t make it for them. Maybe that’s what Emily is going through now. She must decide to put the razor down and eat again, and I hope she will. The world is a much brighter place with her in it.

Please listen to your kids. Keep an eye on them, but don’t hover because that will undoubtedly push them away. Love them. Just love them.

Let’s Talk About Cutting

saradobiebauer

I want to cut my wrists. Don’t panic; it’s not a serious thing. I don’t want to kill myself, but sometimes, when I’m daydreaming, I like to think about cutting myself.

I’ve been doing it off and on in secret since eighth grade. Once I hit my upper twenties, I stopped caring if anyone noticed. Now, in my thirties, good friends know how things are going based on my Band-Aids.

Again, this isn’t a suicide thing. It’s not a “cry for help.” I don’t cut for attention. I don’t cut because I mean myself any harm. I cut because it feels good. Physical pain is better than emotional pain any day. But it very rarely comes to that anymore. Mostly, it’s just in my head. I fantasize about cutting because it calms me down.

Say I’m in a crowded room, and people are small talking around me and I’m just feeling … anxious. I zone out and picture a knife against my skin. Not cutting into my skin—just lingering above it, like a playful tickle. This is my meditation, my visualization, my Power Animal. This image calms me down and always has.

I considered getting a tattoo on my left wrist. That way, I wouldn’t cut my left wrist anymore because I wouldn’t want to ruin the ink. But then I thought, “How does ink hold up on scar tissue?”

I spoke to a group of troubled teens a couple months ago. I admitted to a room full of strangers (who possibly had more in common with me than most “adults”) that I’d been cutting for years. One of the girls asked, “How did you stop?”

Well, I didn’t want to tell her I hadn’t. Instead, I lied. I told her I channeled the yearning to cut into something else—my writing, for instance, or yoga.

But being a cutter is like being a smoker. You quit … but you never really quit.

I’m not saying this to freak out my mother or make you uncomfortable. I’m saying this to be honest. I often question God’s intentions: Why did You give me this stupid disease? Why did You do this to me? What kind of a loving god are You anyway?

See, I get sad, then I get mad. Once I’ve calmed down, I usually realize I wouldn’t be “me” without the depression. I wouldn’t be as weird or funny or oddly charming. I wouldn’t be an artist. I also wouldn’t be able to speak to troubled teen girls or write blog posts that hopefully help other people—make them feel not so alone.

Recently, when I opened up about self-harm, I brought it up, nonchalantly, with a friend of mine who shocked me by saying, “Yeah, I’ve been trying so hard not to cut lately.” Who knew? Now, I do, and now, we talk about it.

We need to talk about this stuff. In college, I hid my mental health problems. No one would ever have thought, “Wow, Sara’s a real downer.”

The older I get, the more I have learned to embrace “me,” even the psycho side of me who wants to stay in bed, never eat again, and play with knives. If anyone needs a hug, it’s her!

So seriously, I’m not trying to freak you out. I just want you to know me, and maybe someday, we can help each other. Isn’t that why we’re here anyway?