Life As I Know It

This blog is new and one I’m still introducing myself to, but I wanted to talk about something that’s a really big part of me. It’s not exactly the easiest thing to talk about, but it’s something that I feel I need to in order to sort it out better. Getting things out of my head is always one of the most helpful things to do because I can visualize my problems. So here goes. Sorry if it’s kind of all over the place and choppy, it’s not exactly something I know how to talk about it.

Underneath the crazy, sarcastic bitch that I usually am is someone completely and emotionally unstable. I can admit that. I have depression that flicks on and off at inopportune times and can range from a few days to a few months. Then on the other hand I have weeks where things are great.

I am a self-injurer. It is something I have admitted before but to very few people. I’m afraid of it, but not afraid to admit it, if that makes any sense whatsoever. I don’t know the exact day it started, but it was around two years ago in August. It was towards the beginning of one of my worst “downs” I’ve ever had. That one itself lasted over eight months.

In simple, stereotypical terms, I am a cutter. There, I said it. (Tangent — I really hate the fucking emo kid jokes about cutting because around people I seem fairly together, but those jokes fucking hurt more than people really understand. So if you’ve ever told them, whatever, just stop because chances are there’s someone around you who is insulted that it’s something you take so lightly — end tangent)

It initially started pretty light with just making light scratches along my palms. I am a pianist though and so that quickly became a bad spot. So I moved to my upper right thigh. It was more….convenient… I guess. It was easy to cover without questions to be asked.

The light scratches soon turned to more prominent cuts as I became more “brave”, so to speak. Weapon of choice: a pair of sharp metal tweezers. Bloody parallel lines soon loitered that section of my body. Jeans (and pants in general) were getting more painful to wear, but I didn’t care at the time because it felt good. Even though the damage was done, I was able to feel it for periods of time afterwards when the fabric rubbed & irritated them. Yeah, it’s kind of fucked up.

There were times when I tried to stop. I did everything from rubber band snapping to pushing my nails into my palms, but nothing ever felt good enough to replace it.

Why did I started/kept going it is something I frequently ask myself. I think I have a pretty good idea — I was alone and it felt like my world was falling apart. I think I needed something else to feel besides weakness and being out of control, because that’s how I felt. I felt weak for letting someone I cared about tear me apart and leave me. I felt weak for letting my best friend be taken away by an asshole of a guy. I felt weak for pushing people away because I hadn’t mastered the whole ‘act like everything is okay’ bit and I was so fucking afraid of them seeing me as imperfect. I felt weak for constantly feeling depressed. I felt weak for not figuring out how to manage my own fucking life. I felt weak for letting my emotions completely take control. I felt weak for not knowing who I was and feeling disgusted inside my own skin. I felt weak for not being able to make myself happy. I felt weak for not being able to reach out. I felt weak for faking everything about myself. But most of all, I felt so weak that I couldn’t hide from past demons that occurred years earlier, things that if I ever talked about or relived, I would probably turn into even more of a disaster. I had been getting nightmares and panic attacks again, and I just couldn’t handle reminders of things.

By hurting myself, I was distracted, if only for a little while. I could feel the sting and watch the blood. I was taking control of my life in the only way I felt I could. Control is a huge issue for me. I’m a major planner. I don’t like things out of their natural order or being late or not knowing what’s going to happen. Everything was just out of control and I couldn’t stand it. Cutting was the one thing I could control in my life at the time. I could control how much, how deep, where, and when. It felt good for a while. Then it felt worse because that control only lasts so long. So the pattern kept repeating itself. It was this cycle that I had fallen into and couldn’t get out of. It still makes me nauseous to even think about it.

It got so bad that I found myself on fucking Christmas Eve with a razor in my shower. On school days, I did it in the bathroom at lunch. If a class was ever becoming too much to handle, I’d excuse myself and do it then too. It was so constant, and my whole life was revolving around how deep I needed to get me until I could be at it again, it was pathetic. Nothing was ever in my way, so nothing ever made me stop.

A little past February things started to get a little better. I have no clue what changed, whether it was the depression letting up or just a fluke. Then things got worse for another few weeks. Then they got better. It wasn’t overnight. It was a gradual change I noticed. I was able to space it out more, I didn’t rely on it as much.

I have not quit completely. It’s a goal, but it’s something I’m working for nonetheless. I use a calendar, and for every day that I don’t, I put a star. I don’t remember my longest run without any off the top of my head, but it’s somewhere in the fifties I believe (as in days). At the moment, I’m around the forty seven-day mark. This is the time when things do get a little rough. Hence why I’m writing this blog, to try and just talk it out instead of just brooding over it in my head. I probably seem pretty contradicting. It was only yesterday when I said I was living life and having a good time, but then again my moods change in an instant.

Somehow I kept in mind not to ever go too deep or too far. Just enough to leave a mark for a few weeks and then fade away. Maybe it was an inner conscious that saw a future ahead where I didn’t want brutal scars. There are scars, there is no doubt, but they’re not as noticeable. You have to be looking for them to really see them, which I think is helpful in many ways. I’m not reminded every day when I look in the mirror, yet when I need to remind myself of where I’ve been, there’s always plenty to look at.

Two years. I know there are people out there, who have it much worse, but this is my story, and this is my life and my story. It doesn’t matter if it’s been a few months or a few years. It still matters, and it still affects people differently. And it’s still wrong, despite how it may feel at the time.

Besides cutting, I do other smaller forms that could be labeled “self injury” though I don’t really think of them that way. I pick at my skin and chew on my lips/inside of my mouth. I pull hair from my scalp, legs, eyebrows, and eyelashes. Sometimes I’ll purposely get angry and give myself bruises. They’re still self-destructive, but I feel like it’s still a step down from actual cutting.

So anyways, to wrap this all up now that I’ve kind of gone on a tangent because I started feeling uncomfortable, self-injury sucks. It’s a problem, and it’s one I’m trying really hard to fix. The best thing I can suggest to people is a strong support system. When I initially pushed away all my friends, it was probably the worst thing I could do. Now they’re what keep me grounded and remind me that I’m alive and need to snap out of things. They’re also there just to listen to me rant when I need to take my emotions out on something other than myself. I have so much anger and sadness that when it gets bottled up, things just go wrong.

So. Yeah. Now I feel awkward. Um, questions or comments are welcome.