A few years ago, I read an article in a seventeen magazine about girls who cutand burned themselves on purpose. I remember thinking they must have been the stupidest creatures alive… who on earth would put themselves through pain voluntarily? Today I look at my arms and see them laced with the scars I sworeI would never have.

The scarlet lines that criss-cross the underside of my forearm designate me as a follower of a destructive trend overwhelmingAmerica’s teenage girls. We learn from childhood-- from our first Barbie doll -- to hate our bodies and ourselves. We smear greasy paints on lovely, delicatefaces, trying to create a reflection of our corrupted country’s perverted sense of beauty. And when we cannot mold ourselves into that perfect being, we inflict pain on ourselves as punishment.

The other day,I scratched a friend of mine lightly with a bent paperclip to demonstrate thepotential danger of wearing it around his neck.

“Ouch!” he exclaimed, looking at me with pained eyes. “That hurt!”

“Oh, it did not,” I scorned.

“Well, then, let me see your arm,” he demanded, preparing to use the dangerous weapon onme. The look on myface transformed instantly from one of disdain to one of venom. I rolled up my sleeve, revealing an arm marred by self-inflicted red welts. “Here,” I said bitterly. “Try and hurt me.”

Self-injury is a fashionable psychosis. These days, no one’s anyone unless they have a therapist. (Oh, you see Ms. ______? I really prefer Dr. ______.) SI is perfect for the task as it carries none of the inconveniences of failed suicide attempts or bulimia. All our role models have psychological issues. Our president is a recovering alcoholic. It's proven: you can’t be human unless you’re crazy. This is compounded by living in a world that thinks its Pleasantville. A nuclear family, complete with dog and housewife, makes life seem too perfect. Our chaos has to come from somewhere; for me, it came from cutting.

It wasn’t something I’d never heard of. Magazine and newspaper articles are sprinkled with stories by shrinks about kids who cut themselves. I had friends with burnsand deep red scars that made me cry just to think about. I’m not sure what pushed me from the point of crying for my friends to doing the same thing to myself, but I suspect it was a sense of failure to comply with what the world wanted me to be.

Eventually, I got to the point where I couldn’t look my parents in the eye anymore. I could see far more pain in their eyes than I ever meant to cause even myself. It was the biggest unintentional guilt trip anyone has ever put me through. One of the reasons I cut was to keep from hurting other people. Once that goal stopped being accomplished, I didn’t have the will to drag out the razors.

I don’t know if I’m a happier person now that I don’t cut myself. I have less to feel guilty about, but I have a lot more pent-up stress. I’m probably a little meaner, a little harsher to other people than I should be. I think about cutting myself every day….a little like a “recovering alcoholic.” You never really stop beinga cutter, you just recover forever.

I hope that I’ll wake up one morning and go through an entire day without considering cutting myself, but I don’t think it’ll ever happen. Every day is a battle for me.

But I’m winning.

[Editor's Note]