Cover Story

by Jeremiah Moseley

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Cutting Covers Inner Pain
but Scars the Soul

Today Jeremiah Moseley works at a group home with young men who harbor inner anguish and turn to cutting, among other behaviors, to cope.
--Benjamin Tertin, photo

I sat quietly, knees curled to my chest, nestled in the darkness of my bedroom, holding the razor close. I could hear my mother close the front door to the house and lock it. She climbed into the family station wagon and drove away. I was free at last.

Rising from the floor, I limped toward my bedroom door and pushed it open.

Pages from Stephen King novels that I had nursed over the years flipped through my mind as I approached my destination, my altar: the bathroom. There I felt I could find solace.

Pulling off my shirt, I stared into the mirror. The right side of my lower abdomen was wasted away from atrophy, and I had been unable to stand upright for almost two years. I turned on the shower and got in.

The hot steam ushered my mind to far off places, worlds of fantasy, places I went to disassociate from the pain. I cut myself with the razor, again and again. The cutting released endorphins and gave me a temporary rush. But when the "high" faded, my physical pain and the voices in my head remained.

Two years prior, at age 16, I was a normal Christian kid with an overzealous drive for recognition. Like most young men, I desired the approval and attention of my father. And, like many young men, I didn't get what I needed.

In eighth grade I became the target of a bully in gym class. He hit me in the back every time the teacher left the room. Every day I walked the two miles home feeling defeated and ashamed for not sticking up for myself. When I got home, I always closed my bedroom door when I changed my shirt so no one would see the bruises.

During that time, my parents fought frequently, so I never felt comfortable approaching them with my frustrations. I began talking to myself. My thoughts took a turn for the worse, and the idea of self-injury began to incubate.

In ninth grade my best friend introduced me to the local YMCA weight room. Within six months, under the guidance of a YMCA employee, I had gained 15 pounds. My self-image temporarily swelled. But two months later, during a routine leg workout, I ruptured a disc in my lower back.

From that point on, my life could be summed up in one word--pain. Physical pain is hard to hide, but I managed. The damaged disc shot pain down my right leg with every step I took. I couldn't lift weights, drive, sleep or eat without pain. I was flung back to square one--defeated. As a result of my physical limitations, I turned to horror literature and art for comfort.

Films, fiction and drawing in my sketchpad assisted a retreat from the back pain. I quickly degenerated to viewing horror films, occult literature and anything twisted. I did, however, begin to read the Bible and found Jesus' life fascinating, especially when I got to Hebrews 4. It says, "For we do not have a high priest who cannot be touched with our infirmities." Unfortunately, the Bible was little more than an occasional "pick me up."

Because I had already toyed with the idea of self-injury, shifting my thoughts into action was easy.

I cut myself with razors or knives and burned myself with a heated fireplace poker. I only injured my upper arms and chest, areas that would be unnoticed. The wounds were always superficial enough for me to treat myself.

I had not read cultural statistics regarding self-injury or even heard about the subject when I first began cutting myself.

I just wanted to hurt myself, to lash out against the back pain. I felt no one could understand me if I tried to explain my twisted thoughts.

I was afraid my parents would send me to a behavioral health unit, so I remained silent about the cutting. At age 18, two years after the injury, I could no longer drive and could only walk with the assistance of a cane. I had told my parents about the back pain, but not the cutting. Under the supervision of my parents, my doctor prescribed physical therapy, painkillers and a steroid injection. All failed to provide relief.

Nighttime became another trial because pain was constant. With or without painkillers, I averaged two hours of sleep per night. Sometimes cutting sessions culminated with me holding a pistol to my head. But each time, a gentle voice from within told me to "hang in there." One evening, after a heavy battle with suicidal thoughts, my dad approached me and asked if I hated him. "No," I said. "Then will you give me a hug?" he asked.

I declined his gesture by flexing backward, instantly popping several discs back into place. I sat there cold as a stone until he walked away. I broke that night and repented before the Lord for my bitterness toward Him and anyone who showed happiness. The next day I asked my parents to forgive me for the way I'd treated them.

One month later my dad led me to a neuro-surgeon's examination room where I was instructed to dress down for a pre-op examination. My father saw the scars from my self-inflicted cutting. His eyes filled with tears. After that day I stopped self-injury. I felt shame because of the hurt I had caused my dad and others but also relief, because someone finally knew.

Jesus knew all along, though. It was his gentle voice I heard while I wrestled with suicidal thoughts.

He pleaded with me to bring my pain to him. Instead, I had blamed God for not stopping the bully, for problems in my family and for my debilitating back pain.

At age 26, I still experience pain and depression, but I've learned to communicate those feelings to God and to trustworthy people. Now instead of wounding myself, I find pleasure in assisting the healing process of others.

Many of the youth I have worked with throughout the past five years in two different treatment centers and on Portland streets have similar stories. God has used my story to bring some of them hope and teach me that trials have the potential to build character, a lesson that one can only learn through pain.

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