The craziest part of me is a beacon and I trust her with my life

On being a cutter and why threatening survivors with lock up is fucking violent

When I was a teenager I used to cut myself. This cutting changed my life. I didn’t understand “why” I was doing it but I knew it was a ritual that provided intense relief. I knew there was something profound and powerful both in the act itself which felt like popping a balloon of mounting pressure, and in the resulting cuts which made visible something unspeakable.

When my father saw my cuts for the first time, peeking out from my shirt sleeve, the words he said to me were “How could you do this to your mother?” It’s a strange response because the arm he was looking at was my arm, not my mother’s.

I first started self injuring as a child. I was maybe eight or nine years old. I would turn the water on as hot as it went and then put my hand under it for as log as possible. I didn’t know “why” I was doing it but I knew the bright pain gave me something. I knew this forbidden act was a key of some kind and I kept returning to it. I started to touch the electric heater in my bedroom, feeling in that sharp sudden pain some other reality. Something impossible that was right here. Something that could not be known or looked at directly but which was bursting from my body and needed a way out.

When we talk about sexual violence I wonder sometimes if we know what we are talking about. If you have not been sexually assaulted over and over again, if you have not lived in constant terror at the violation of your most fundamental bodily autonomy, if you have not been forcibly held while you struggled to escape, then it may be that you don’t actually understand what I’m talking about when I am talking about the trauma of sexual violence, and in particular child sexual abuse. A huge part of what sexual abuse is, is force. It is a violation of the body’s sovereignty. The body’s innate desire to move, especially away from danger, is crushed.

When I was a teenager my self injury escalated to cutting. I know it is forbidden to write about the joys of cutting, especially in any detail. Those who have never held a blade to themselves dictate the conversation by insisting that cutting is taboo and dangerous, even to be talked about. Those who have cut are trained to live in such fear of cutting again that any discussion of cutting can only be understood as a trigger. I need to talk about cutting and what it did for me, even if it’s not something I choose to do anymore.

Cutting was ecstatic in its relief. Cutting was a doorway, a portal, a way out. Part of what was different about cutting from the other types of pain was the blood, bright and real. The cutting was different in that it left marks. The blood hardened and scabbed and the cuts all over my arms and legs were like a beacon. Impossible to ignore. Leading somewhere.

The physical experience of cutting was more than anything else relief. Imagine running well past your capacity for running and then collapsing into rest. Imagine being desperately thirsty and then tipping a water bottle back to your mouth. Cutting was like that. It finally felt like I could breathe. And in those intimate moments with my own body, feeling sharp, bright sensation, I knew that what I was feeling was real and I knew that my body was mine. Cutting was never about self hatred or shame. It was certainly not about death. Cutting was always about escape, survival, and saying NO. Cutting was my first doorway to bodily autonomy and I know that makes no sense to many people who were not sexually abused.

Not only was cutting a desperately needed respite from the constant unbearable pain, but it was a successful act of resistance against child sexual abuse. Some kids at my school reported my cutting to the office. I was forced to see the school guidance counselor. At some point I mentioned to her that I was stressed because I had to see my grandfather again soon. She asked why and I told her why. She called Children’s Aid and I never had to see my grandfather again.

I had already told many adults about the sexual abuse and many adults also witnessed it. I had already run and hid and fought and slept in a tent instead of my bed. I was already doing whatever I could to protect myself but I was being traumatized and brainwashed by my family. Cutting did for me what nothing else did. Cutting created a spectacle big enough that someone finally believed me that something was wrong. If I had not cut myself my grandfather would have had access to me until he died which was when I was 22. Instead, I got away from him at 15. Those seven years fucking matter and make the difference between me being the free person I am today and being a totally brainwashed person recreating the cycle of trauma in my family.

Cutting was the best and smartest thing I could have done and I will never regret my choice to do so or see it as crazy. It only looks crazy to those who do not understand.

I stopped cutting when I developed psoriasis, because psoriasis tends to flare up on broken skin, and I moved on to alcoholism and weed. I had one episode of self injury in early sobriety. It’s been more than ten years since then. These days I rarely have an impulse toward self injury, but I will be honest and say that the reason I never act on my rare impulses is not because I think cutting myself would be a dangerous or unhealthy thing to do. The reason I don’t act on the rare impulse to cut is because I don’t want to deal with other people’s reactions to my cutting. I don’t want to experience the danger of being treated like I’m crazy.

Recently, I went through several major stressors at once. I’ve been in a long process of grappling with incest since deciding to become a mom. Then, I found out that my ex partner killed himself in jail, and then right after that, my mother threatened to sue me for writing about the sexual abuse in my family. This combination of experiences sent my mental health into a really crazy place. Or, a better way of saying that — this combination of experiences brought to the surface old survival strategies that come up for me when I am stripped of power and not believed. Cutting is power and cutting is a claim on reality and when my mother was threatening to try to stop me from writing, my body started screaming for a razor blade.

I didn’t want to cut, mainly because I don’t want the drama of it. So I told my partner that I felt at risk of cutting and asked them to move the razor blades out of the bathroom. They told my closest friends, and one of my closest friends started messaging me about how she wants me to stay alive. I told her I am not a suicide risk. She told me that obviously me talking about razor blades like this will be understood as suicide risk. This shocked me because I am always shocked by people’s lack of literacy around “crazy” behaviours and suicide risk. Cutting in no way indicates suicide risk and is, in fact, a behaviour that people do because they want to live.

I tried to explain this to her. This resulted in her telling me that she thinks it’s justified to intervene by any means available if she thinks I’m a credible risk to my health and safety. She said she will call 911 on me if I cut myself, even if she knows I’m not a suicide risk, just like she will call 911 on a man beating up his girlfriend even if he didn’t intend to kill her. She told me she doesn’t understand cutting but she loves me and the thought of me cutting terrifies her because she thinks my body is precious. Therefore she feels qualified to decide that I should be foricibly incarcerated and stripped of my right to legal personhood.

People in psych wards do not enjoy basic human rights. They can’t say no to things being done to their body. They can’t leave. They can’t tell their captors that they are wrong and that they actually need something other than incarceration and forced medication. Anything can happen to you in a psych ward, both forms of abuse that are totally legal and forms of abuse that aren’t. People in psych wards are not thought of as full human beings with the right to decide what happens to them, and so therefore, anything at all can be done to them. This is terrifying in general but I cannot think of a more violent thing to do to a sexual abuse survivor than locking them up.

Cutting is a relatively low risk behaviour, depending on the implement used. It is not indicative of suicide risk. Behaviours that have a similar or higher level of risk to physical health and safety include: drinking alcohol, drug use, smoking cigarettes, binge eating, getting tattoos, riding a bike without a helmet, having sex without a condom, or practicing bdsm. You will not be incarcerated for any of these behaviours but you might be incarcerated for cutting. This makes no sense at all and has nothing to do with the “health and safety” of traumatized people.

Thinking that you are an expert on what a traumatized person needs while refusing to listen to her is wrong, dominating, and oppressive. Thinking you have the right to decide what a sexual abuse survivor can do with her own body is controlling and abusive. Threatening a sexual abuse survivor with the total stripping away of her agency and bodily autonomy is violent behaviour and far more dangerous to me than cutting myself would be. Wrapping it in “love” and telling me my body is “precious” and so therefore what happens to it is not my decision, is especially fucking disgusting.

Imagine if I did this to friends who don’t use condoms and keep getting chlamydia, friends who won’t quit smoking, friends who keep binge eating despite being overweight, or friends who drink despite the fact that no amount of alocohol is considered safe. While we might agree that these behaviours have risks, I don’t think any of us would be okay with being threatened with incarceration over them. So why is it okay to do this to friends who cut themselves?

Because cutting is a highly stigmatized behaviour. Because our cultural understanding of cutting comes from a psychiatric system that was designed to produce compliance in “patients.” Because no one listens to survivors of child sexual abuse about our own reasons for own behaviour. Because the oppression that trauma survivors face is rooted in the mythology that we are not in reality and can’t be trusted to make decisions for ourselves. Psychiatry literally reproduces and continues the same violence that child sexual abuse survivors experienced in our childhood homes. Psychiatry denies us bodily autonomy and attacks our ability to trust our perception of reality. Psychiatry has nothing to do with healing, health, or safety. And pretending that it does is wilful ignorance at this point. Ultimately, the function of psych wards is to get trauma survivors to shut the fuck up about our pain.

I don’t know if most people can understand the terror of being stripped of your right to make decisions for yourself. It is such a profound act of domination and dehumanization. If you’ve been in a psych ward but wanted to be there and didn’t have a desire to leave, then you don’t actually understand the visceral, bodily trauma of being forcibly trapped somewhere. I know that trauma well, and it’s the same trauma as my grandfather holding my body against my will. My body is fucking mine and no one has the right to physically control me, no matter their stated motivations.

What my friend doesn’t seem to understand is that domination often masks itself with benevolent concern. Saying you love someone and then stripping them of their bodily autonomy makes what you are doing more violent not less. No amount of love or fear in the world gives you the right to strip someone of their personhood. I am an extremely responsible person who fully understands my risk levels, knows what I need, and is willing to advocate for my needs. I am not at risk of suicide or of serious bodily injury. And yet, my friend who openly admits that she doesn’t understand cutting, feels empowered to say that I no longer have the right to make decisions on my own behalf.

This is the oppression of “crazy people”, and if you look closely, “crazy people” is basically interchangeable with “child abuse survivor.” My friend is literally attempting to discipline me. She is using the threat of the most terrifying and overwhelming power to force her will upon my body. She doesn’t feel the need to listen to my perspective or my own understanding of my behaviour or my needs. The way the oppression of “crazy people” works is that once we are marked as “unfit” we are no longer listened to. Acts of extreme domination can be carried out despite protest, all while feeling like you’re acting from love. This is disgusting and a complete affront to the concept of love.

Cutting is about claiming bodily autonomy in the aftermath of extreme powerlessness. Using force to prevent people from cutting is wrong and reproduces the very violence that the cutting is attempting to escape. Even writing about cutting makes me nervous because I know it marks me as a “crazy person” and being marked as a “crazy person” is extremely dangerous. But I will tell the truth about this because I need people to know that cutting is not dangerous, but incarcerating people and stripping them of their human rights is.

I constantly write about the crazy girl I was, about her drinking and cutting and insane behaviour, and about how I love that girl and understand that she saved my life. Her behaviour may have seemed crazy but it was the exact necessary behaviour to burst out of the realm of unreality. I always say this and people respond positively to it. But this is the first time in many years where I have acted crazy, and even though it was relatively minor (I didn’t even cut, I just talked about wanting to cut), I was immediately threatened with incarceration.

The craziest part of me is a beacon and I trust her with my life. When I say that I’m not being edgy. I mean it. I know that my impulse toward cutting is important communication for me to listen to. It doesn’t mean I have to cut; I can still make a choice about that. But if I did decide to cut, that behaviour would serve a purpose, and would actually not be inherently high risk. The risk comes from other people’s reactions to cutting, their own anxieties and fears that they attempt to manage by applying force to the body of the cutter.

I don’t know how to say this in a way that people will finally hear me but my body is fucking mine. I don’t care what your justifications are: you do not have the right to control me. Bodily autonomy is fundamental and the craziest part of me knows that.

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Clementine Morrigan is an independent writer, cultural change maker, truth teller, and moral philosopher. She writes essays and literary nonfiction about ethics, politics, relationships, sexuality, violence, trauma, and unconditional compassion. Her cult classic zine, Love Without Emergency, has sold more than 11,000 copies (that’s a lot of stapling). Her podcast, Fucking Cancelled, independently toured the United States. Her readers have created and disseminated amateur translations of her work in several languages. If you have spent time in a punk house or queer collective house in the last 20 years, you have probably flipped through one of her zines in the bathroom.

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