Out of Hand

I haven’t written much more than 140 characters in weeks - but I’ve had so much to say. I wrote a piece about my daughter, half hoping someone would see it, be in a similar situation, and we could discuss it. This new unfamiliar ground I find myself standing on is terrifying.

A cutter.

This little girl. My little girl. Slices her skin to deal with her pain. And I don’t understand it. She sits on her zebra print comforter and slice, slice, slices her thighs. In the last few weeks I’ve sought help for her. Professionals. People that can speak in tones that are constant comfort. People that aren’t shocked and

know what to do.

She’s learned coping skills. She’s in therapy. And I, as never before, am lost. Scared. Did I do this to her? I’ve always been proud of my kids. When things are going well, I bask in the fact that they are half-me. This, however… I’m internalizing the entire “blame.” Did I do this?

I’m logical. I know there are intricacies in the brain that cause these things. She can tell me 1,337 times that it’s not my fault. Her smile is coming back. She counts the days she hasn’t cut.

I’m still. On. Edge.

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