A year and month or two, I'm not sure
exactly how many, since the last time I self-harmed. Now I'm back to
zero. . . back to square one. Yes, today I hurt myself, but you know
I'm not as disappointed in myself as I usually am. Instead, I'm
proud. Don't freak out, let me explain.
I'm proud because I stopped myself—I
held back—when typically I would have ravaged the flesh on my arm.
Scratched until my forearm, in it's entirety, was raw, bleeding, and
beyond repair. Instead there is only a small patch that suffered my
emotional outburst. I'll take that as a victory, it's small, but it's
mine.
There's no explaining how difficult—how
near impossible—it is to listen to the screaming voice that tells
me to stop hurting myself. In fact, until a year ago I never had that
voice. Instead there was only the need—the drive—to see my
internal damage on the outside. Sprawled out on my flesh in scratchy
patterns of red and pink. That alone is a big deal. I might have lost
this battle with myself today, but I'm getting stronger. The other
part of me—the one that wants to heal, really heal—now has a
voice. That's. . . HUGE!
With the positive of today's events
aside I want to share something deeply personal. Something only three
people have seen, and known exactly what it is. This is what my
self-harming looks like.
Unlike the stereotyped idea of straight
cute lines (not that I'm diminishing that in any way) self-harm can
look like a variety of things. This is what mine looks like. Raw,
ugly, scraped flesh. I don't run a razor or blade across my skin, the
only time I do that is when I intend to end my life. Yes, on occasion
I have been close enough to suicide to take a knife out and tease my
wrists, but when I want to vent my pain. When I need a physical
release for the emotions I can't deal with—when I'm flooded—instead
of using something sharp and easy to break skin I go the most
destructive route.
Taking my healthy fingernails I scratch
over and over at the flesh on my left forearm, each pass making the
skin more sensitive. Then, before the skin breaks, I stop because the
feeling in my arm has numbed and I want to make sure I feel
everything. After a few moments, when the feeling has returned and
the skin is already raw with pain, I start again. Over and over with
more pressure behind my scratch until I feel the first sting of air
against freshly torn skin. From there things get brutal. I push
harder into my flesh, move faster back and forth up my arm until all
the protective layer of skin is gone—until I'm raw and exposed. If,
after all that, I still have flooding I pour 90% rubbing alcohol over
the open wounds.
It's. . . awful.
Ugly, depraved, and it's exactly how I
feel inside—deep down where no one else can reach. My harm, a
physical manifestation of what my mother has done to me—what I
lived through. Now I can see it, now the world can see it, but no one
notices.
People see what looks like burns on my
arm and they think, because I like to cook, it was an accident. A
kitchen mishap. Strangers believe it to be a nasty fall where I
scraped up my arm. No, it's so much darker than that.
I'm sharing this with you—with the
world—because I want people to understand others can self-harm in
so many different ways. There is more to it than cutting. Some, like
me, scrape away our flesh. Others burn themselves, or break their own
bones to get relief. Then there are those who eat stuff they know
that's slowly killing me (I'm guilty of that too), or pick at scabs,
pull out their hair. . . all of this is self-harming. It's a way to
release anxiety, emotional pain. We do it because we don't know how
to cope any other way. We learned to survive trauma—agony—the
truly ugliness of humanity by any means necessary. It's sad, painful,
and oh so hideousness, and people like me don't need judgment.
Believe me, we judge ourselves enough. We don't want pity, what we
want is compassion and someone to hold us and say, “it's alright.”
Nothing more.
If you want an example of what not to
do when someone comes to you for help when they are self-harming. I
got one for you.
The first time I scratched the hell out
of my arm I didn't understand why. I was at work in a local hardware
store, and at the time I was a nail biter. So, using my nails to
scratch myself wasn't possible, instead I used a screw I had found on
the floor. I couldn't say what was going on in my life, that whole
time period is one big cluster-fuck. Too many things going on, and my
emotions had a mind of their own. I didn't black-out, but I wasn't
truly in control of myself when I stood there at my cash register and
repeatedly scratched myself with the screw. Man did I tear myself up
bad.
When it was over I didn't understand
it. I didn't understand what I had done or why, but I was
scared—terrified—and when I got home that afternoon I went right
to my mother. I knew I needed help, so I reached out. It would be the
last time (until my husband) that I ever asked for help in any way.
I showed her my arm, and told her I
didn't understand what was happening to me. Dani, busy on my
brother's computer, scolded me. She said, “Jacqulene, why? What the
hell is wrong with you?”
Fuck, her response gutted me. Right
there I froze with a pressure of guilt I had never experienced
before. The entire world on top of me, on my head and pushing me into
the ground. If I were an animal you would have seen my tail go
between my legs, my ears go back against my head, and shame written
all over my face, Dani saw none of that.
I didn't know how to respond or why I
had done it, but I knew matters with my best friend (and ex-boyfriend
of mine) were bad at the time. So I told her I though it was that. It
has always been better to answer Dani with something rather than stay
silent. Silence/lack of response tends to flare her anger.
She replied to my confession with,
“That's pathetic.”
The whole time she sat there staring at
my brother's computer, reformatting it or something. She only looked
at me once to see the damage, then turned away. So I was pathetic,
wonderful. I went into my room right beside where she was, and
climbed into bed. Dani never once followed or checked on me.
Her daughter. . . her child had
confessed to carving her harm to hell, and her only response was.
“That's pathetic.”
Needless to say I never stopped hurting
myself, in fact it got worse. I've burned myself, dug in my ears
until they bled, cut pieces of my skin off, and pulled off full
finger nails.
If you know or suspect someone around
you self-harms, please don't be Dani. It does far more damage than
the person can do to themselves. Be compassionate, let them know they
are not alone, and offer to help them seek answers (professional
help). Just simply be there. It means more than anything to people
like me—to people that are suffering on a level most will never
experience in their lives.
#SelfHarm #Depression #Help #Compassion
#Anxiety #Survivor
~Jax~
