Tags
bipolar, burning, cutting, depression, history, pain, parasuicide, self-destructive, self-harm, suicide
Warning: Potential triggers ahead. The account that follows is fairly explicit. It discusses self-injury and suicide attempts. Proceed at your own risk.
Time to own up. I have a history of being very self-destructive. Admitting to my past self-destructive behavior is purgative and cleansing, however, so this is detailed enough to make me wince.
My scars have faded over the last decade or so, but they will never go away. I haven’t done anything to intentionally injure myself in a dozen years, but I never stop worrying that I’ll someday feel compelled to do it again.
In the very beginning – and I’m very sheepish to admit this – it was imitative. It was around 1991, when I was in middle school. I was severely depressed and curious why other kids would cut themselves. As soon as I tried it, I knew why they did it. The external pain distracted me from the internal pain. It let me feel something that I controlled, instead of something that controlled me. I didn’t tell anyone about it. I wasn’t doing it for attention. I was doing it to relieve the pain.
I cut myself with a dulled razor blade, really just surface scratches at first, around my waist where the damage wouldn’t be seen. Since no one picked up on it, I got bolder and the behavior grew in frequency and severity. It started out such a minor thing. Eventually I would cut myself every day.
During a particularly bad episode in 1992 (still in middle school) when I was both depressed and extremely impulsive, I got it into my head to try to take out a vein – and myself. Fortunately the knife I chose was not all that sharp and sawing at the back of my hand under water took awhile. By the time I had actually nicked the vein and saw blood coming out in spurts with my heartbeat, the pain broke through the fog in my head and made me realize that I didn’t really want to die. That was the first attempt. I made up an excuse about a sharp knife falling while I was doing dishes. People bought it. I will see that scar all day, every single day, for the rest of my life. After 20 years, I am still not blind to it.
Scars from first misbegotten suicide attempt and the fry basket incident.
I made an explicit, premeditated suicide attempt around 1995, with a dulled razor blade across my wrist. The same thing happened as before. Using a not-so-sharp instrument gave me opportunity to wake the f*ck up and stop before it got lethal. I didn’t really want to die. I felt like I was backed into a corner and being eaten alive by depression, and I just wanted out.
I didn’t allow that wound to close for months. I hid it under a Mickey Mouse watch with a red leather band, which irritated the cut all the time. The physical pain crowded out the emotional pain, but at the same time kept it fresh and constantly close to the surface. All summer, I’d take the dog for a walk to the most beautiful and peaceful place in the neighborhood, and slice my wrist open again until it bled enough to drip. Right on the street. Almost every day. It was like the wound inside me that filled me with misery: it never healed, and so I kept the option to exit close at hand. No one ever noticed. I never said a word.
Then I had an “accident” in the theatre shop around 1996. This time the razor was fresh and sharp. The cut was deep. It gaped open and blood ran all the way down my arm and dripped off my fingers. There was a bit of a scene. I should have gotten stitches but I knew the hospital staff would see it for what it was and send me to a psych hospital. I fought against everyone’s concern and just used butterfly bandages; it took several months to fully close up. There’s so much scar tissue that it looks like a burn, 3″ long and over 1/4″ wide. It took 5 years before it faded from purple to red, and over 10 years to fade to flesh tone. People still ask me what happened; I started telling them the truth a few years ago.
Too many scars to count. The one from the theatre shop episode is top and center. It doesn't look so bad after 16 years.
That incident scared me. I backed off. Like I said, I didn’t really want to die. I just didn’t know how to cope with my overwhelming emotions. Nothing had ever prepared me for such extreme distress. And in fact, things improved for awhile.
Then I went to college and the bipolar mood swings kicked in. Lots of other self-destructive behaviors curbed the tendency toward self-mutilation, but it didn’t go away. One night in 1997 when I was particularly depressed, I got drunk alone, carved a rune into my shoulder, and filled it with India ink. The next day I pulled the scabs off, scrubbed as hard as I could, and got most of the ink out. You’d have to really look to see it, but it’s still there. Ironically, the rune is wunjo, meaning “joy”.
At some point I finally realized that I wanted to kill the horrible feelings, not myself. Getting drunk and high was enough to kill most of the emotion enough of the time to get by. I switched to burning: more pain, less mess, no risk of death. I have burn scars across the razor scars on my wrist. I have a scar on the inside of my left elbow where I repeatedly burned myself during the summer of 1999. I have burn scars on my hand from when I worked in a restaurant kitchen – a hazard of the trade and usually minor enough to be temporary – but I intentionally plunged my fist into a fry basket that had just come out of a 350° vat of oil. Now I have hash marks across my right ring finger and knuckle. Forever.
The self-mutilation ended not long after I met Mr. Chickadee at the turn of the century. I couldn’t bring myself to do anything that I knew would hurt him or make him disappointed in me. He kissed my scars. Kissed them. He really and truly loved me, as messed up as I was, so I figured I must have some value after all. Although the mood swings never left me alone, nothing ever got that bad again.
Love saved me. Mr. Chickadee saved me. I saved me.
I promise that if I ever feel the need to hurt myself, I’ll do something else. I’ll plunge my hands into ice water, snap my wrists with rubber bands, draw on myself with markers instead of razors. I’ll tell my husband. I’ll call my therapist. I’ll check into the psych ER. I won’t hurt myself again. I promise.
The like I put on there was not a like for the self-destructive behavior. The admission and realization of the behavior is the “like”. Your story hit a homerun right into my gut.
The similarities between our experiences are startling. Middle school. Dull blades. For me, it was kitchen knives. That’s all I could get my hands on. There was a suicide attempt in a bathroom with an Exacto knife. I thought that was the ticket, and I went to slash my wrist. Except, the thing was duller than a butter knife.
When I became an adult, it got worse, because I had access to even more damaging materials. Razors. Box cutters. I had a job that required me to use a box cutter every day. I always had a box cutter on my person, just because I needed it for my job. I never burned though. I don’t know why. I got a really bad grease burn once, and it just didn’t give the same satisfaction. The pain wasn’t the same.
And then there was all of the self-medicating and dangerous behaviors with various substances. But, I suppose I’ll save that for my own confession.
It was interesting. I was talking with a friend last week, and we discussed Jack Kerouac and his intentional demise through alcohol abuse. I never realized it before. That’s what I was attempting to do at one point in time. I just didn’t know it.
I’m glad you made that promise. I wish I could do the same. I made the promise that I’d post and hold off for as long as I could. I’d spill my blood on these screens, through these words, and hold on to whatever I could.
Thank you for writing this. I feel less alone in those memories.
I think everyone who has these experiences is less alone in it than they think, but it’s a very private thing nonetheless. And it’s really hard to put into words the why and wherefore in a way that anyone can understand. Others who have done the same get it, but those who have not have a very hard time wrapping their head around it.
The scars are something pretty awkward to carry. Especially in the summer, where everything else tans but the scars. Tanning is something I try to avoid, in general anyway. Not just because of that.
Amen to that. Most of the scars on my left arm are hard to see in this post because I’m very and winter-white makes everything less obvious. But boy does a little sun bring out the evidence of the crazy… The hashmarks on my upper arm become strikingly apparent, as does the giant ugly one.
I have awesome tattoos on my upper arms that I like to show off (they’re hidden under short sleeves) which means baring it all. The tattoos really distract from the scars when I’m sleeveless, which is almost better than short sleeves for that reason alone. I have had plans for a long time to cover the rune with another tattoo, but haven’t come up with anything I liked well enough just yet.
Someone very dear to me had track marks from using heroin. After her treatment, for her next birthday, her mother bought her a tattoo. It was to cover her painful reminders and to bring in something beautiful that happened as a result of a painful, bad situation.
I have this one. I obsess over it. As I become pinker (because I don’t really tan), you can see it. It was carved with a steak knife. One thick line across my arm, it’s end coming right next to this lone freckle that’s been with me my whole life. And off of that thick line are two smaller ones. I wasn’t satisfied with the deep gash. I had to pull the knife down, the serrated blade making parallel gashes downward.
It’s the most visible of all of them, because it’s white. Very old, more than ten years. There’s a newer one that’s still pinkish on the inside of that forearm, but it’s hardly visible anymore. It just looks like a little discoloration.
I wish I could do something with that scar, I do. But it is dead center on my forearm.
I think this was a very couragous post to make and I commend you. As someone who experiences similar things I know how difficult sharing it can be.
I an encouraged by botht the honesty and the commitment/promise you made.
Good on you!
Kind Regards
Kevin
I think it’s easier to discuss when it’s retrospective, and easier to make such promises when it’s been years since I did anything like this (though I admit, there was still a moment of hesitation.) To some degree, part of the point is that you can get past it.
I am liking this post because I like and appreciate your honesty. Glad that you have reasons and plans not to hurt yourself anymore. Hugs
Like the others, I really appreciate your honesty here. It’s not pleasant to dredge up memories like these from the past,but it’s healing and freeing. It helps others, too, because so many of us also have self-inflicted battle scars that we hide from the world in shame. Your brave words mean we are not alone. Keep taking care of yourself. We care and we need your voice. Thank you
It’s hard when you feel like you have so much to hide. I might not be able to talk about this kind of stuff in everyday life, but at least I have the blog as a place to work some of it out. And I really appreciate the sympathy and support from everyone else.
DeeDee,
I’m with the other bloggers, I’m liking this post for your courage and transparency, not for the self-destruction your post described.
Le Eric Clown
There’s not much to like about someone hacking herself up, is there? But admitting to our sins and promising to do better – well, I suppose it’s all very Catholic. Nonetheless, it helps.
Thanks for being open about this. I can relate.
Wow. This post is . . . I admire the courage to post it. I can identify with the mindset you describe.
I’ve never done anything as self-destructive as what you describe. My self-harm has been more superficial. Sometimes in the moment of doing it, I would want people to notice, but never afterward. I would always be ashamed or regretful.
Your post makes me thing of something I’ve been feeling like I should talk about some time. Since my attempts at self-harm have never been drastic, I’ve always felt it was presumptuous to call it self-harm because it wasn’t the “real” kind. Sometimes I wonder if there isn’t such a thing as emotional self-harm; if so, I’ve engaged in it frequently.
Sorry; I probably shouldn’t be babbling so much about myself. I’m glad you’ve taken the step to resolve not to harm yourself anymore. That in this post, in general, are very powerful. I wish I could give you a hug.
Lulu has a great post on self-injurious behavior, and notes that it goes beyond explicit self-harm. I only realized that there was a lot more to it about a year and a half ago when one of my girlfriends pointed out binge eating and self-medication as self-destructive behaviors that she (and I) had experienced. I just hadn’t thought of it that way.
Lulu mentioned that usually self-injurious behavior is a sort of cry for help, but I certainly didn’t see it that way. Perhaps to some minor degree, but a lot of it was about control and distraction from even more distressing emotions.
I also don’t recall it as self-punishing, although I suspect there was an element of that at the time. I only vaguely remember any sort of self-hatred, but that might be because I’ve thoroughly erased that thinking – I get frustrated and impatient with myself but I don’t hate myself by any stretch. I understand my all-too-human shortcomings much better and that not only is no one perfect, no one expects me to be perfect. Mostly I hated my life, not myself, and felt really helpless to change anything about it; all I could do was wait it out and that seemed too agonizing to tolerate. Fortunately I now have a lot more control over everything, and that helps me stick to my guns when it comes to finding more constructive ways to deal with my problems. And hopefully DBT will help me learn how to do that better as well, since I certainly have a skills gap in that area.
It’s interesting to see the different reasons why people self-injure. When I was in high school, I would do it because I hated my life. By the time of the big break, though, it was because I hated myself. I don’t know if I’d call my self-harm a cry for help. Sometimes in the moment I do it defiantly hoping people will notice, but afterward I will do all I can to hide it. It could be a covert passive cry for help. But there’s more to it than that. I don’t know how to completely articulate it. Sometimes I would do it because it seems my options are either self-harming or suicide, and I don’t really want to kill myself. Sometimes I do it because I despise myself. Sometimes I do it because I’m enraged at some mistake I’ve made and I want to punish myself. Occasionally I’ll just feel so much overwhelming raging despair that I act on that.
Well, good luck with the DBT.
Not easy to read, but I’m grateful you wrote it.
This is one of the most thoughtful, straightforward, and honest accounts of self-injury I have ever read. I’m so glad you have made it out of that place. *hugs*
Thanks, Ruby – coming from you, that really does mean something.
Yep, I’ve been there. Made scars where surgical scars where–scars on top of scars. Funny how people seem to buy those stories of how you got this. I remember telling my mom that I’d had an accident in art class. I did the most damage when I was drunk (more pain tolerance I suppose). I was more of a jabber/stabber. Good to know you’ve gotten so far. I promised myself not to ever do it again for the third time last August. I hope i’ll do good on my word this time.
Ouch, scars on top of scars? Vicious! I would never have done that – the scar tissue was always too tender! Ironic, right?
I’m more of a happy drunk, so generally less danger to myself then, except obviously if alone and depressed.
I hope you’ll stick with the promise this time too! It takes time to get over a habit like that.
Yeah, it was pretty vicious. Don’t like to think about it much. I only did in those areas a few times when drunk. I don’t think I would’ve ever done it near or over any scar tissue had I been sober seeing that I can’t even stand scratching scar tissue when a mosquito bites. It is ironic. The good thing is it never got to be an everyday thing, it was always sporadic, week and moths apart. I can be a happy drunk too but I don’t know when i’ll flip the switch (usually when alone and already depressed too).
Congrats on defending your dissertation and getting the PhD! I’ve been thinking I may get to grad school one day.
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