Emotional Flood (Part 1)

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~