I don’t remember when I first started self-harming. I remember being aroung 6 or 7, beating my head and fists against a wall, and punching myself in the thighs. I then went back around the corner, sat down, and continued with my geography work. Nobody knew, but I didn’t care either way; I didn’t know that people would think it shameful or disturbing. It was just normal to me.
It wasn’t until I was around 11 or so that I discovered cutting. I caught my shoulder on a sticking-out nail… And I just stopped. It was so simple. I figured it was more efficient than beating or burning myself. So much neater. And it just felt right. I started cutting myself in places where it wouldn’t show, the thighs, upper arms and shoulders. I could still wear a t-shirt and shorts until I was about 16. The problem, though, was that wounds heal too slow, and I was cutting myself a couple of times daily. Basically, I eventually ran out of room.
It wasn’t until I was 18 I made a mistake, and landed myself in hospital. I was cutting my arm in the bathroom at work, and I went too deep, and couldn’t stop the bleeding. My boss told me to go to the hospital, and I guess she, or someone who saw the blood pool on the floor, that called my mum and told her.
I’d love to say it stopped there, but it didn’t. I just went to work on my lower legs instead of my arms and shoulders. It wasn’t until my girlfriend finally told me what it was doing to her, maybe 6 months later, that I had a decent reason to stop doing it.
That was 8 years ago this coming October. The 2nd was the day I quit. With the exception of 2 or 3 isolated incidents over the period, I’ve essentially gone that long without deliberately harming myself (unless you count getting so drunk I fell down some steps and broke a couple of fingers!) And I would love so, SO much to tell you it gets easier. But it doen’t really. Every single day, I see glass and edges, sharp things and electricity… And I want it. I want to go into the garage right now, and take a hammer to a couple of fingers. I could have shut them in a door. Who the hell would know?
And then there’s the worst part: I don’t bloody know what I want from it. Peace or punishment or pain, or a simple endorphin rush? I honestly have no idea. I’ve never noticed getting high from endorphins, but I’ve heard they are essentially your own body’s opiates. Home-made heroin. Maybe that’s it, but I think there’s something in the act itself. Control, or release, or proving I’m still here, human and alive. It seems as likely as any other theory I’ve heard. The truth is, I can’t walk into a room without noticing all the things that could be turned against myself, and its as hard today as it was yesterday.
If you’re like me, then hopefully hearing or reading about others with the same problem will help you feel less alone with your problem. Less isolated from the world around you, and all the seemingly perfect people you see around you on the street. But, if like me you still get the Jones for it 8 years on, for no good reason, stressed or not… Then I don’t know what to tell you.
-Andy
