Self Harm

Someone once told me that self-harming is a coward thing to do. They said that it is selfish to do. That it's a choice. It isn't always a choice. I don't remember what day I picked up a razor blade for the first time. I remember the reason why I did, though. I remember the sting of the blade cutting into my arm. I remember the overwhelming feeling of relief that washed over me after each cut. The same relief I felt each time I picked up the blade and touched it to my skin. I got that same relief with the snap of a hair tie or rubber band against the skin of the wrists. You can't take a razor blade to school, especially when the school itself upped its security measures after a bomb and gun threat was found in the school. You can, however, wear a rubber band or a hair tie on your wrist, in your hair, or even just put it in your backpack or purse. No one thinks anything of it. I remember I used to discreetly snap it on my wrists between classes and sometimes during classes. It was so easy to hide the marks with a jacket.

I started harming myself due to the loss of my maternal grandmother, who was one of my best friends. I was her caretaker. I did everything for her before school, prepared her breakfast and lunch, fed her dog, let her dog out and back inside before catching the bus. I came home from school and got us both a snack, and ate with her while we watched TV and discussed school. I was 15 when she passed away. Her death rocked me. When she passed away, something inside of me snapped. I started cutting and snapping hair ties on my wrists to create a physical pain for my heartbreak over her death. I would snap the hair ties and sometimes rubber bands extremely hard until my wrists welted and I'd keep doing it until they bled. I cut my wrists, thighs, under my breasts (hidden by where the bra would rest), my abdomen, and my stomach. I cut anywhere that it could be hidden. At the same time, I also stopped eating. I would eat three or four bites of food at a time before my stomach would recoil and I'd end up getting sick. It also helped keep people from suspecting something was wrong. I was really good at hiding my pain behind a smile and pretending I was still the same happy girl I was before.

It wasn't a choice for me. I didn't wake up one day and plan to pick up a razor blade and bring it to my skin. I just did it. There wasn't a thought process. There wasn't a decision made. It was just something I did to try and find a release for my internal pain. It was my relief. It was my way of coping with the sudden loss and devastation I felt. This continued on for months. It was a vicious cycle I couldn't end. And if I'm being honest, I had no desire to end it at the time. I needed the relief it gave me. I craved that release of the internal pain.

All that changed one day, when I wasn't unnoticeable anymore. Someone finally noticed I wasn't as okay as I portrayed myself to be.

I had a friend who noticed blood on my jacket sleeves, and on the part of my shirt that rested under my bra. I had cut too deep on the underside of my breasts and my wrists. After he spotted it twice, he paid more attention to me. And he'd notice when more blood popped up. Or if I moved wrong or something hit me in a spot I cut, and I'd wince, he'd pick up on it. After a week of him noticing more blood spots, he confronted me. I bared my soul and he listened to my heartbreak. He apologized to me for not noticing my pain and devastation sooner. He apologized for believing the mask that everyone else did. He helped me to stop cutting and snapping the hair ties on my wrists. He took my razor blades I had hidden around my house and gathered them all into a small box. I didn't realize how many I had hidden until I saw all 10 of them in one spot. He challenged me to take the box from him and throw it away. Once I did, he took the trash bag and put it in his car. I have no idea where he dumped it when he left my house that night. He would check my wrists and bag for any extra hair ties and he'd hold onto them in his bag for me until I needed one. He'd put my hair up every morning before classes started just to make sure I wasn't tempted. He would evaluate how deep I cut myself and make sure they didn't get infected. He became my biggest confidant. He knew when I needed him and was always there to listen.

I stopped cutting in February 2007. It's a struggle not to relapse and do it when I get upset, stressed out, depressed, or when my anxiety spikes. It is a really hard struggle. But I do not want to ever get to that point again in my life, so I have better coping mechanisms to make sure I don't relapse.