Cut
Aftermath, Linda Diane Bunk (1994) sculptural art
March 1st is Self-Injury Awareness Day. I have taken a long time to share this part of my story.
It starts very simple. It began during my parents’ divorce. It was a way to get positive attention.
Middle school was a nightmare. I was that weird kid. I hated going to school. I played sick a lot to stay home. I spent a lot of time in the nurse’s office. My mom would not release me from the nightmare of middle school.
Many changes happened during middle school. My parents were divorcing. My body was changing. The bullying increased. I didn’t fully understand how the world was changing. I found peace in cutting.
I started cutting to get positive attention, because whenever I was hurt (which was a lot) I received good attention. It seemed that my mom could better deal with me when I was hurt or sick. It was as if my weirdness subsided.
I would cut myself and end up in the Emergency Room. Mom would care for me. It didn’t hurt that much. Many ER visits. Many stitches. Many stories. Even a nurse passed out cleaning one of my many wounds. I didn’t think about where this path would go.
High school was even worse. People called it the best time of your life; I am not sure why. More bullying. More isolation. I felt numb all the time. I only felt alive when I cut. The burning pain would awaken me. The pain was temporal. Many ER visits. Many stitches. Many stories. After graduation, I was aimless.
I went away to school but ended up in a mental health crisis and returned home. I felt like a failure. I felt free after cutting. The cutting ritual became darker. I would use a white shirt to clean up. I saved this shirt. Later, I would use the shirt to relive the cutting ritual without cutting. I hid it for another time.
I entered a local university and studied art. I found a sense of belonging with other weird students. I flourished in my studies, but I was still cutting, still using the same shirt. After university, I was without direction.
I started attending a church by the invitation of a young family friend. At first, I just went to get him to stop asking me about church. I was diagnosed with bipolar and ended up in the psychiatric hospital several times. I struggled to understand, “Why God? Why did You make me with bipolar?” I was still cutting and cleaning it up with the shirt. This nonchalant cutting completely controlled my life.
“As he passed by, he saw a man blind from birth. And his disciples asked him, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” Jesus answered, “It was not that this man sinned, or his parents, but that the works of God might be displayed in him.”
Then the pastor talked on John 9:1-3. I started to understand, but I was still cutting. I began serving on a stateside mission trip to a camp for the disabled. Serving at this camp, God showed me the blessings I had: I had family and a church community; I lived in a home, not an institution. I became more content but still struggled. I struggled with my mental health and was eventually estranged from my family. I was living in my car and still cutting.
I was accepted to a private art school’s graduate program, but it was a struggle. My Christian walk in graduate school was terrible, but God protected me. I was in the hospital three times. One night, I cut so badly that I lost a lot of blood and passed out. I woke up in the ER. After that night I stopped. God provided a path to finish school on time. This was the first time I finished an education program on time and graduated on stage. More importantly, I stopped cutting.
After school, I was still aimless but, in a strange way, content. I started working with a homeschool art program. I was serving overseas. I decided to have the scars repaired on my right arm. I had tissue expanding surgery. The first surgery went well. The second ended in a serious infection and long recovery. My arm was left distorted, numb and worse. Why God? These scars are part of my story. Not a badge of honor, but a reminder of the dark struggles and redemptive grace of Jesus Christ.