"Cutting" is a term most would associate with activities such as chopping vegetables or skipping school. . For Molly Mitchell, and for thousands of other emotionally tortured kids, it means finding a sharp object and drawing it across the skin on your arms, or legs, or stomach until the blood seeps out in the little rivulets that purge the pain within. At least for a little while.
Molly, sixteen and struggling with the process of growing up, is trying to find her identity in a world complicated by divorce, social alienation, and a girl-toxic culture. She has been handicapped in her journey by the divorce of her parents, and she vacillates with feelings ranging from anger to alienation. She is estranged from a father she feels abandoned her, and distant from a mother self-absorbed by her own pain. Molly has a difficult time deciding if her high school is a safe haven or a threat, and she longs to find something to believe in and, more importantly, someone to believe in her. And at night, when the hurt is too much, Molly takes a razor between her thumb and fingers and pulls it across her flesh, over and over, weaving a bizarre quilt of emotional despair, scars on the outside to distract from the wounds within.
Confronted with the mounting pressures adolescents face today, Molly has resorted to the self-mutilation that is an increasingly common and perverse coping mechanism for an alarming number of our youth. These obstacles increasingly surround her until one fateful night when her fragile life falls apart. She finds herself transported to a new world where she begins to understand and confront the demons in her life, rather than to deflect and dull the external pain with self-induced, internal pain. She gets to know herself when she comes to know other teens twisting in the winds of life and learns to trust in them and then in herself. She and her family also begin the painful but necessary process of peeling away the complex layers of hurt that have festered among them for years, and they discover again the fundamental meaning of love and belonging. Molly again finds the life-faith that so many teens are missing.
Jody Dempsey, Ph.D., is a Clinical Psychologist in Vestal, N.Y. whose clinical practice is devoted to the treatment of troubled children and adolescents and their families. In his twenty year career, Dr. Dempsey has also served as a consultant to numerous schools and agencies treating children and has taught a number of subjects regarding children/family issues at the undergraduate and graduate level at several colleges, including Binghamton University, and has published research in children's issues as well. Most recently, Dr. Dempsey devised, created, and taught a course entitled Children and Violence at Binghamton University. He has also written for the media regarding children and nonviolence, and has been interviewed numerous times by area television news stations regarding a variety of children's issues. Dr. Dempsey, aided by a staff of teen volunteers, has conducted a "Peace Camp" teaching nonviolent problem-solving and diversity to hundreds of children for the past nine years. He has also served as a consultant with the Johnson City School District in New York to devise and implement interventions teaching and promoting nonviolence. He is a licensed psychologist in both New York and Pennsylvania, is certified as a School Psychologist, and is a Member of the American Psychological Association and its Divisions of Clinical Child Psychology, Peace Psychology, School Psychology, and Clinical Hypnosis. Dr. Dempsey lives in Vestal with his wife and three sons.
Back in class for the afternoon, I found it even more difficult than usual to concentrate. The discussion with Mr. Harris had me rocked. I felt like I’d been "outed," but I suppose I was naive to think nobody else was going to notice. Funny how the only one you fool sometimes is yourself. But, for God’s sake, I didn’t want anybody talking to my parents! The last thing in the world I wanted was to have Mom and Dad going at it over this. When they can rip each other’s lungs out over the time of day, I didn’t want to be the center of their attention in a "discussion" that would certainly lead to another lovely knock-em-down. We kids had already been the subjects of most of their marital tugs of war and I sure didn’t want to be the excuse for another one.
I also couldn’t help but wonder which one of my "friends" ratted on me. Who had betrayed my confidence? Who had the goddamn nerve to go behind my back and put me in this position? Here I was, going out of my way to tell nobody anything, and someone decided to play God and blab to Guidance about my life! I was furious. I was nervous. I felt cheated.
After the trip home from school, I fell off the bus and crawled home. I’m alone for a few hours every day before anybody gets home, until Mom gets back from school, as the elementary school starts and finishes after the high school. I shuffled into my bedroom and collapsed on the bed. I keep my room dark, which isn’t hard to do for most of the months where we live, and today was no exception. I also keep it quiet when possible, unless I’m trying to drown out the noise from the rest of the house, like when my Mom is home. I laid there and stared at the ceiling, the same ceiling I’ve stared at for more hours than I can count. Been here, done this.
The pain I was feeling was almost like some sort of perverted friend. I’d been feeling it long enough and strong enough that I knew it as well as I know myself, probably better. The hurt seeped its way into my bones, my muscles, and my back. My arms and legs started to shake, and I couldn’t control my breathing. It always scared the hell out of me when I start to hyperventilate, giving me a feeling like my lungs were on a ventilator gone berserk. Faster, faster, and faster my lungs filled and deflated, and I was loosing control. I was panting like a freaking dog! The panting turned to panic and it flowed into every single inch of me, making it hard to see clearly. My hands and feet started to tingle with that prickly, electric feeling, and I was losing it, big time. I got up and paced around the bedroom, faster and faster. Desperate, I reached out and punched the top of my dresser, hard, and I didn’t even feel it. I punched it again, and again, and again, and my knuckles started to bleed. The blood caught my attention, distracted me for an instant, but that’s all. The panic grew, and I felt like I’d explode!
I knelt beside my bed and pulled out a wadded-up tissue from underneath. Frantically, I unwrapped it and took out the razor I kept there, shaking harder, breathing faster. Trembling, I gripped the razor in the middle between the two sharp edges, raised it, and slowly stroked it across my right arm, just below the elbow. As I did, the blood seeped up and flowed in rivulets following the path of the razor’s edge as it opened my arm. The blood was dark red, almost maroon, as it rolled off the top of my arm, defying gravity while it curled to the opposite side before dripping onto the tissues underneath. Again and again, I pulled the blade across my arm until I couldn’t distinguish one cut from the other.
As I watched my blood flow, my breathing slowed, and my heart stopped pounding out of my chest. My panic faded as the cuts started to throb, and my focus shifted from my shitty life to the curious wounds. It was as if all the hurt came together and congealed in my arm. It was lots better this way. My own blood was a sedative. It was lots better this way. I got zoned staring at the blood, hypnotized, mesmerized, carried away. The pulsing in my arm beat to a slow rhythm that was soothing, reassuring. The rest of world faded away and all that was left, all that I could see, all that I could feel was my arm, the blood, and the pain. No Mom and Dad; no Mr. Harris; no school; no friends; and no enemies. It was lots better this way. Lots better......lots better.........better.........
