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24 CHAPTER 3 My History as a Cutter Losing Self-Esteem I first cut myself when I was twelve. I did it because someone told me to. That sounds typically adolescent, I know. I used an old, dull jackknife and carved a cross into the side of my right shin. It was summertime, and I wore shorts almost every day, so I knew people would notice it—but that’s what it was about at the time—people noticing. I didn’t cut myself due to physical abuse by my parents, intense selfloathing , or suicidal ideations—I cut myself because a teenage boy who lived in the neighborhood told me to. Looking back with the hindsight of a thirty-three-year-old woman, I now realize this boy was a sadist. More about him will come. For now, let me try to take myself back to that twelve-year-old girl I have trouble believing now I ever was. “The Time I Lost Myself” I was like the nearly 40 percent of those in Whitlock, Eckenrode, and Silverman’s study who never told anyone about their self-injurious behavior . Nevertheless, I wanted my parents to notice the cuts. Maybe not right away, but I know I wanted them to notice. This was the beginning of my “phase,” a strange and difficult part of my life that began slowly and peaked when I was about fifteen. It was over by the time I was a senior in high school. I call it my “phase” because that’s what my parents called it. A more apt and accurate name for it might be “the time I lost myself” because that’s what happened. At twelve, I struggled to fit in. It was the summer between sixth and seventh grade, and I was preoccupied with my appearance, my friendships, and my incompetence. I was thin, probably about eighty-five pounds and about four feet ten inches tall. I was prone to exaggeration, and I was so sensitive to others’ criticism that I was a slab of marble to these would-be 27460 part 01.indd 24 27460 part 01.indd 24 10/2/07 2:04:14 PM 10/2/07 2:04:14 PM My History as a Cutter 25 sculptors,becomingtheshapetheywantedmetobecome.Mybestfriend’s brother once told me my thighs were fat. This one comment reshaped my body image irreparably. I had stringy brown hair that wouldn’t do a thing, and I had no athletic ability, nor did I particularly care to develop any. I was supposed to wear glasses, but I refused to do so in the name of vanity. I had begun to menstruate, and I believed the old wives’ tales about one’s body having grown to its adult size once a girl began her period, so I was mortified to think I would be short with fat thighs and a flat chest forever. I became obsessed about my body and compared myself to the images of perfect girls I saw in magazines such as Teen. I couldn’t live up to these models, and I failed to realize that few girls could. Being bombarded with societal messages that I was inadequate produced my inner turmoil. I felt I had little control over myself because I lacked the power society equated with beauty and perfection. As Gilligan suggests, my sense of vulnerability, preventing me from doing “something in the world,” had begun to paralyze me. I was convinced that those who complimented me were lying or were just trying to be nice for whatever reason. My selfconfidence had always been shaky. By twelve, it was gone. According to Mary Pipher, “America today is a girl-destroying place. Everywhere girls are encouraged to sacrifice their true selves. Many girls lose contact with their true selves and once they do, they become extraordinarily vulnerable to a culture that is all too happy to use them for its purposes” (44). I agree with this assertion, but I wonder whether each of us has a “true self” rather than a self that is constantly influenced by a variety of cultural and genetic forces. I was adopted when I was three months old and grew up in a family of four, consisting of me, my parents, and an older brother, who was also adopted. All I was told about my birth family was that I was Catholic and my birth mother had allergies. Adoptions were closed when I was born in 1970, meaning...

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