I want to share with you one of my darkest secrets. A behavior, an emotion, a "thing" that for many years I wanted to believe was not something I had done to myself. Something so embarrassing to admit that I attempted to bury it forever. I didn't know how to talk about it, didn't know how to explain it. It has been many, many years since I harmed myself. In fact I engaged in this between the ages of 15-17.
I wrote this a couple of years ago after attending a conference session on women who harm themselves. Afterwards I spent some time with the presenter describing some of my self harm and she challenged me to come out of my self imposed darkness and be willing to admit it and someday discuss it. I want you to know this comes with much hesitation and that I will post links to sites where help can be sought.
The
first time I cut my wrists,
a great light came over me,
not
only had I found a way to release my sadness but I also found the perfect way
to illustrate my emotions. I had this mark on my body that conveyed a message
for all to see. A message that could only be interpreted one way, I was
hurting. My self harm was a perfect compliment to my substance abuse, I could
intoxicate myself, cut on my self to amplify the high, release my sadness, and
send a message to those around me that my life was spiraling out of control and
that I had deep rooted emotional issues. I wore the cuts on my body like huge
billboards, “I’M HURTING”. I never wanted to kill myself but romanticized the
idea that I could cut deeper, more, bigger and come close to death. In fact the
closer I came, the better it felt.
The more I cut, the better I
felt.
What started as an
experiment with emotions and pain quickly developed into an obsession.
I
cut on myself everyday; designing patterns of marks that somehow exemplified
the number of times I had felt pain. The only problem is I didn’t have enough
skin. I cut on cuts, I cut on scabs, and I cut and cut. The group of people I
hung around were impressed with my cutting. Other kids at my high school, with whom
I had never spoken, came forward to compare their cutting to mine, an exchange
of desires, dreams, and shared pain; a somewhat intimate exchange. Finally they
must have thought someone we can relate to and someone who needs us. I never
wanted to gain any relationships from my self-harm, only bring attention and
resolve to the destructive nature of my own existence. I became obsessed with using different instruments to
cut with razor blades, utility knife blades, broken glass, pins, and needles.
As the sensation of cutting began to numb, new ways became a last option. I
began to burn “blue circles” into my wrists using a cigarette. I would lie in
bed and choke myself. I would punch myself repeatedly in the face and stomach.
I didn’t want to die but I knew I didn’t want to live.
