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But isn’t wanting attention one of the most fundamental traits of being human—and isn’t granting it one of the most important gifts we can ever give?There’s an online quiz titled “are you a real cutter or do you cut for fun? On the one hand, I’m like, Why does this shit happen to me?
I have a patch of tissue near my aorta that sends electrical signals it shouldn’t.
I had a terrible broken heart when I was twenty-two years old, and I wanted to wear a T-shirt announcing it to everyone.
I’ve got a puckered white blister of tissue on my ankle where a doctor pulled out a maggot.
I’ve got faint lines farther up, at the base of my leg, where I used to cut myself with a razor.
The boons of a wound never get rid of it; they just bloom from it. Perhaps a better phrase to use is , which is to say: the ways a wound can seduce, how it promises what it rarely gives.
My friend Harriet put it like this: “Pain that gets performed is still pain.” So after all this, how can I tell you about my scars?
I told him the truth: I’d accidentally knocked into a sheet tray at the bakery where I worked. People say cutters are just doing it for the attention, but what’s that “just” about?
A cry for attention is positioned as a crime, as if attention were inherently a selfish thing to want.
” full of statements to be agreed or disagreed with: Gradations sharpen inside the taboo: Some cut from pain, others for show.
Hating on cutters—or at least these cutter-performers—tries to draw a boundary between authentic and fabricated pain, as if we weren’t all some complicated mix of wounds we can’t let go of and wounds we can’t help, as if choice itself weren’t always some complicated mix of intrinsic character and agency. The answer, I think, is nothing satisfying—we do, and we don’t. I felt like I wanted to cut my skin, and my cutting was an expression of that desire.