TRIGGER WARNING: Mention of self-harm and suicide
This is part one, in a 11-day "series." Please be aware that mention of self-harm and suicide will be in each post.
DAY ONE
From a young age of ten, my journey began
Amidst a whirlwind, no map, no plan
It became visible at fourteen, a secret outgrown
A battle waged silently, mostly unknown
Pain felt like thunder, blood a temporary balm
Seeking solace in hurt, in moments of calm
Cutting, burning, drowning in despair
A desperate escape, gasping for air
Now, at thirty-eight, I look back at the strife
Six years free from that self-harming life
No shackles of meds, just my soul’s own plea
Healing, growing, finally free
Through darkness and storm, my spirit did fight
Emerging at dawn, from the longest of night
A testament to strength, resilience, and will
Climbing ever upwards, a steep, daunting hill
If you or anyone you know is struggling with self-harm, please reach out to the crisis text line. You can text #988, or you can follow this link.
I started finding ways to hurt myself around 10 years old, on purpose. Around 7, I had my first cigarette and learned it "helped" with my emotions, but this isn't really about cigarettes. This is about the emotional pain. The pain from the cuts, the burns, and the picking of the scabs was a temporary, in-the-moment release from my ever-so-strong emotions. My mother will tell you I'm lying about this; that it didn't start when I say it did, but she didn't know, at that time. Despite noticing it when I was 14, she'll deny this until the day she dies. That's just another thing she'd have to admit she missed and she doesn't want her parenting to be questioned.
I've talked before about how my mother "handled" my self-harm. Daily inspections, violently grabbing my arms to check, letting me know I'm ruining her image, calling me retarded and childish, etc. Then, of course, acting very differently in front of anyone watching.
I used to admit myself to psych wards a lot to try and understand why I kept hurting myself. Consciously, I didn't really know. I just knew I had a problem. Of course, they would blame it on being bipolar and upping my dosage of medications. Instead of trying to figure out what else could be happening, since the medications never worked. (Although my mother always said they did, because they would just keep doping me up, as I was more compliant to her demands when I was medicated.)
There weren't many periods in my life where I wasn't self-harming in some way. Maybe a week, or even a month for 20 years. However, when living with my ex-fiancé, it kicked up more than it ever had. I was cutting myself so deeply and so often, that they were constantly infected. These were deep wounds. I couldn't wear pants because the pants hurt the cuts. I would use anything and everything I could find to hurt and cut myself. I was constantly degraded, belittled, and told how "fucking retarded" I was.
I also never sought medical care for these cuts. I knew how I was going to be treated, and I didn't want to be admitted. At this point, I had been on the domestic violence waitlist for a few months, having to call in every day to see if a spot had opened. I already wanted to end my life, so I wasn't trying to save it. I had already been saving my prescriptions to overdose on and once and for all get rid of this emotional pain. To this day, I have large scars all over my legs, and trying to save up some money to get cover-up tattoos. When I get sun, they are extremely noticeable.
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