Why I Cut Myself and Why You Shouldn’t

A Note to the Reader:
We, the Spectator’s Editorial Board, did not take the decision to publish this article lightly. We are aware that it contains content which some might find disagreeable, but believe that it tells a story worthy of being heard. It is important that we bravely, candidly, and transparently face the issues described in the article as a Stuyvesant community rather than sweep them under the rug. On the author's request, we kindly ask that anyone who uncovers his or her identity refrain from making it public. We invite you, the reader, to read the following narrative:

A lot of my peers at Stuyvesant casually tell their friends, “I’m going to kill myself.” I hear it a lot—actually, too often for it to be funny anymore. We say it often enough that any psychologist in her right mind should put us in a straitjacket and have us sent to the nearest hospital. And yet, every one of these remarks is met with nonchalance, because nobody has the guts to act on those urges, and everyone knows that.

I think that out of all the people I know who have graduated from Stuyvesant or are still currently attending it, I have come the closest to achieving such a goal—on multiple occasions. When I was in sophomore year, I was brushed off by my crush, and I carved a line into my wrist. Being very antisocial, I was unable to talk to anyone at the time, and I vented at myself, which was a very rash and unhealthy decision at the time. But being blinded by my emotional pain, I could not see the consequences of what I was doing. The line felt good at the time, and I expanded it into a small pitchfork. In hindsight, I now say I did it to “learn my lesson,” and the pitchfork is a “symbol of the evil that had befallen me.” Frankly, that is b.s. to cover what I really felt and what the line really meant at the time. It was just a result of my depression and how far I was willing to go, because someone had twisted my insides with her words.

In junior year, I made the same mistake again. And a snake composed of three lines forming a Z joined the pitchfork’s handle. I sought my friends for “help” when really all I wanted was attention. I drew more concern and worry for my own well-being than what I really warranted. What I needed was someone to talk to, and putting that burden on my friends when my life was on the line was extremely inconsiderate. They had their own stressors and things to take care of. My depression did not merit a couple of Stuyvesant students nervously waiting for me to text back, because just in case I didn’t, they would have to dial 911.

And again, I made the same unhealthy decision during my last year at Stuyvesant. After I was rejected from two colleges during the early acceptance days, my father broke down, and I was distraught. Tangled in that situation, I locked myself in my room and proceeded to draw blood in the shape of the two Chinese characters “努力.” I swore to myself and the friends who I proceeded to contact about the marks on my forearm that “I won’t let my father see another rejection again.” An empty promise at best. There is no guarantee of anything, especially when you’re dealing with colleges. And even though those characters mean “work hard,” did I really “learn my lesson”? My lazy attitude remains, and I often struggle to get out of bed in the morning.

I’m an emotional person, but Stuyvesant doesn’t really foster the environment for us to communicate the truth and our feelings. It’s always met with the following: “Alright, we get it”; “Big sad”; or “Relatable.” There’s no amount of nor attempt at real understanding there. So, I totally understand if you’re in a large elephant-sized mound of depression and stress right now. But don’t let that get to your friends, because they have the same mound to deal with. Adding more stuff to their pile without taking away any of your own doesn’t help anyone. Don’t let it get to your parents. My mother was shocked when I showed her the pitchfork and snake. But she’s also the internal type, and I’m sure she held in more emotion than she showed. I was her flesh and blood. For nine months, I ate what she ate, and she went to the bathroom for me. It’s a deep connection. Her heart was most likely broken when she heard about what I did, and there’s nothing I can do to fix that. My scars remain, and by extension, so do hers.

My advice? Go look for your counselor, and just talk it out. It’s not something that I have done often before, and that’s one of my regrets in high school. But they’re always there for you, and it’s what they’re there for—to help you understand your emotions and your stress and to properly manage and handle them. Or better yet, look for someone outside of school. A psychologist is not something many people can afford, but it’s an option for those who can really use the help.

It’s not worth it to put a knife under your skin. Yeah, sure—you’ll only risk infection and maybe losing an arm to gangrene. But you’re also going to hurt a lot of people around you. Friends and family members have their own problems, and you giving them one more is not an ideal situation for your relationships with them. Also, associating an emotionally painful experience with physical pain is not a surefire way to go. It’s almost an addiction. You might get heartbroken by someone, and you’ll start needing the physical pain to overwhelm the mental pain you just felt. A couple of rejections might leave you with some scars on your arm, but what happens if you lose your future job? Your home? Your family? These are all questions that I don’t want to find out the answers to. Neither should you.