Self-Harm

In shadows deep, where pain resides

I sought solace, where love abides

Yet found a heart, both cold and cruel

That masked its wrath, in tender fuel

Your screams cut deep, like sharpened knives

In place of comfort, harsh reprimand thrives

Your gaze, a judge, on marks unseen

Where care should dwell, it turns mean

At doctor’s behest, you wore a mask

A portrayal of love, an artful task

I clung to hope, in that façade

Not knowing the truth, so cold, and hard

Behind closed doors, a different tale

Where love’s veneer did quickly pale

No compassion there, just hatred untold

In that darkness, my pain took hold

But now I see, with clearer eyes

The truth unveiled, beneath your lies

No more will I endure that harm

I’ll seek my peace, free from alarm

I started self-harming by use of cutting when I was 10. My mother didn’t find out about it until I was about 13 or 14. She displayed a lack of gentleness, instead opting for a mean and uncaring approach. I endured daily inspections of my arms, and when I hesitated to show her, she would forcefully grab my arm, hurling hurtful words at me. “Jesus Christ (my name removed for privacy), what the fuck is wrong with you? Do you have any idea what people are going to say about me? Just stop. It’s fucking stupid, you’re fucking stupid. Grow the fuck up and be an adult.” As she stomped around the house, not even considering I was releasing the emotional pain she’d been causing me. She would then whisper derogatory names, ensuring I could hear the hurtful words she used to describe me.

During every therapy or psychiatric visit, she would transform into that caring mother once again. She would express her confusion, saying things like, “I don’t understand why she does it or how to make it stop.” Looking into my eyes, she would assure me of her love and determination to overcome this together. In those moments, a glimmer of love would touch my heart. However, upon returning home, the love and compassion vanished. She would dismiss the doctor’s orders, refusing to remove anything sharp (but did so when there was company, for her image of that caring mother), claiming that I simply needed to grow up and stop. She made it clear that it was not her responsibility to ensure my safety, suggesting that I belonged in a psychiatric ward where people would genuinely, "give a shit."

For more than six years, I have refrained from causing harm to myself. Interestingly, during this same period, I have not had any communication with my mother. The thought of self-harm doesn’t even cross my mind. From the age of 10 to 31, there were only brief intervals of about three months when I didn’t feel the overwhelming need to find a way to release my emotions. However, my mother will vehemently deny these experiences, insisting that things didn’t unfold as I remember. She would go as far as portraying me as out of control, when all I ever wanted was an outlet to let it all out.

If you, or anyone you know is experiencing thoughts or self-harm or suicide, please visit the following link for information, and know there are people that care and want to help.

Crisis Line

#CPTSD

#SelfHarm