Relationship with Cutting: An Abusive Lover

Over the years, several of my clients have shared something that, at first, can catch you off guard—not because it’s shocking, but because it’s so honest. One client put it this way: “Even though I’ve stopped cutting, I think about it more now than I ever did when I was actually doing it.”

That statement landed with weight, not just because of what was said, but because of what it revealed: we weren’t talking about a behavior anymore. We were talking about a relationship. Not with a person, but with a pattern—a ritual that had morphed into a presence. Something that lingered, shadowed, whispered. Something that once provided relief, but at a cost.

That’s when I offered the reframe I often use in this work: Cutting isn’t just a coping mechanism—it can become an abusive lover. A false friend. A partner that promises immediate comfort but slowly strips away identity, peace, and autonomy. Like addiction, it doesn’t only hook the body—it entangles the mind, reshapes memory, and attaches to the nervous system.

For many who self-harm, the behavior is less about pain and more about relief. Less about wanting to die and more about wanting to survive something unbearable. And when that method “works”—even if it’s destructive—the brain takes note. It remembers. And even after the cutting stops, the pull remains.

In that sense, cutting often mirrors addiction. It becomes obsessive not because the need increases, but because the memory of relief is so vivid, and the brain keeps suggesting it as a solution when nothing else hits fast enough. The craving isn’t just physical; it’s emotional, psychological, and even existential.

So when a client describes stopping but still fantasizing about it—or feeling guilt for letting it go—I don’t treat that as resistance. I treat it as grief.

Because letting go of self-harm is rarely a clean break. It’s a breakup. It’s the slow, painful disentangling from something that once felt like a lifeline. And like any toxic relationship, it doesn’t lose its grip overnight. It haunts. It flares. It shows up in moments of overwhelm, whispering, You know how to make this go away.

That voice doesn’t mean failure. It means healing is happening. But healing isn’t just about abstinence. It’s about mourning the loss of the one thing that seemed to offer immediate relief, no matter how destructive it was. It’s about making peace with the void that comes when that option is removed.

So I tell my clients this:“You’ve been in a relationship with something you know hurts you. The longer you stay away, the weaker its grip becomes.”

This isn’t motivational fluff. It’s the psychology of trauma, grief, and compulsive behavior. The body stores relief as memory. The mind confuses pain with clarity. And over time, cutting becomes more than an act—it becomes an identity, which is why we don’t just remove the behavior. We name it. We externalize it. We strip it of its authority.

Because of this “lover”? It lies. It isolates. It demands more and more of you while giving less and less in return.

The work, then, is not just stopping. It’s surviving the silence. It’s building slower, healthier, more honest forms of regulation. It’s grieving what self-harm falsely promised and making space for what healing can deliver.

Not perfectly. Not all at once. But over time, with truth, support, and a growing belief in the worth of living unshackled.