Self-Injury, Self-Mutilation, Cutting......Whatever You Want To Call It

I think a lot of people here on ProgressiveU search for topics they feel strongly about or can relate to, or even something that vaguely interests them. So, I naturally searched for the topic of self-injury. A lot of the blogs I read were very disheartening, uninformed, or quoted from a book. Long story short, I was pretty offended by some of them and wanted to set the record clear….on my own personal account. Some of it may get graphic, just a forewarning.
    I’ve read a lot on self-mutilation, and of course some of it rings true. Some other parts do not. A common theme I read about is how it’s a release of energy and a new control over your body. Maybe it is. All I know when I took part was that I didn’t say to myself, “Wow, this is such a relief. I finally have control of myself”. I just took a blade and hacked away. But before I get into my most difficult of times, I’ll start from the beginning. When I can remember it starting.
    When I was a young little BostonActress, I knew I was unlike all of my friends. I wasn’t sure how, but there was something that told me I was different. I will spare you details and spare my own emotions by just saying I had a difficult childhood. It was something that would be considered painful and terrible to even adults. As a child, I did not realize it was not normal. I did not realize my family was unlike most of my friends. That is, until I started going over other children’s houses. I became a perfectionist, and gained weight. I was a very bright child, and had a lot of pressure put on me. I remember one day while climbing over a fence in the backyard, I slipped and a chunk of wood was embedded in my leg. I spent minutes in the bathroom with my father trying to retrieve the splinter, to no avail. Later on, I took the sharp tweezers and attempted to remove it myself. I don’t know why, but it felt good, and I dug deeper until I bled all over the floor. The splinter could not be found, but I continued to dig.
    Throughout my childhood, I developed OCD and began picking at my body in various places. I would dig with tweezers in the bathroom under my clothes, and create holes and craters. I got older, and realized I wasn’t normal….well, I wasn’t like my friends. I did not tell anyone, but continued to dig, and sometimes bang my knuckles on brick walls until they bled. When I was 14-15-years-old, I remember feeling crazy (only word I can use to describe it right now), and my mind was racing. Tears poured down my face, and I grabbed the nearest things I could, which just happened to be a pencil. I’m not sure what provoked it, but I took the eraser end and furiously rubbed at my skin until I had burned a long, thick strip on my left forearm. The burn was deep and raw, and ready to bleed. I didn’t know what to do, it was so conspicuous, so I wore long-sleeved shirts around my parents.
    One day I accidentally lifted my sleeve, and my sister saw my arm and asked what happened in front of my mother. Of course, shit hit the fan and I didn’t know what to do or how to respond, and I was suddenly very alone. My parents did not understand, and threw accusations left and right, and wrongly called me crazy. But, I did believe it. They took my money from paychecks, and wouldn’t let me out of the house. I remember being in the grocery store and asking my mother for some of my money to buy a book. She gave me the dirtiest look and wouldn’t give it to me until I showed her the books and she confirmed they weren’t some sort of cult-like suicidal rubbish. It was terrible how they treated me, but I now understand they were frightened and scared, and so was I.
        The self-injury stopped for a bit, and did not come back for a few years later. I mean, I still dug at myself where no one could see, but I did not pick up the pencil for a while. It did happen again, though. I started erasing spots on my body near my ankles and kept them small, so people thought they were mosquito bites rubbed raw. One summer when I was 17-years-old, something bad happened to me, and I flew off the handle. I was around people and remember running to my car, locking myself in so no one could find me. There I stayed, alone, and looked around for something, a pencil maybe. I couldn’t find one, but I did have some sharp pins on the top of my car roof. You know, the round ones that have smart-aleck comments and are collected? I had a bunch and ripped one off, bending the actual pin. I didn’t even think about it, and slashed furiously at my leg. I stopped, caught my breath, and looked down. My leg was a myriad of bloody stripes and slashes, and blood was dripping onto my car seat.
    After a while, I couldn’t cause enough blood with a pin. I know, it sounds sick, but the blood was a big factor. I tried pieces of glass, but they were jagged and didn’t cut smoothly. I tried breaking open a shaving razor, but the blade was too thin and couldn’t be manipulated easily. Then, I found a box blade…and my weapon of choice. I bought a few straight razors and really started to hurt myself. I am sure a few times I needed stitches, but of course I wouldn’t go for help. I would lay on my bed in tears and drag the blade across my skin, sometimes fast and sometimes slow, until the blood ran down my leg and pooled on my mattress. My poor twin bed is still covered in blood stains.
    At this point, I was in therapy, and accidentally mentioned it to my therapist. I remember her face changing, and asking me about it. I finally showed her my legs that had been hacked apart for months, and she asked me if I thought I needed to go to a hospital. And I did. I wept and told her I needed to stop, it was destroying me. That evening I went home, packed my bags, and was taken into a hospital by ambulance. Now, I know this blog is long already, but I think I need to tell about the hospital for the blog to be complete. It changed me. Not for the better, not for the worse, but it changed the way I looked at the world.
    I was strapped to a gurney and taken by ambulance to the hospital, which was terrifying. I had never been in an abulance, let alone strapped down. I wasn’t a danger to myself at the moment, but they said it was necessary for transportation. When we got there, they rolled me through a few sets of locked doors, and through the common area of a special floor. As I was rolled in, tears streaming down my face, kids stared and looked at me…not with curiosity really or sympathy, but with a “Oh here’s another one” kind of look. They unstrapped me and I was in hysterics, verging on a panic attack. I forgot to add that that was one of the reasons I cut so often and so much. I had sever panic attacks that hit me like a ton of bricks and rendered me unable to breathe. I hyperventilated and they gave me a medication until my body calmed down. It was then the horror really began.
    During this time, I had my period. They ushered me into a little locked bathroom and held up a thin, whit sheet, telling me to take off every single part of my clothing and pass it to them. It was one of the most humiliating and painful experiences. I remember sobbing and passing them my smiley face undies with a dirty maxi pad and having them search it, only to have them pass it back and ask for another article of clothing. After that, they let me know I wouldn’t be allowed to wear any of my piercing, it was against the rules. The week before, I had my belly button pierced, and didn’t know how to take it out. No one could figure it out. They yanked at my fresh pierced and persisted to tell me it needed to come out. Finally, they twisted it open with a pair of pliers and I felt like I had been raped. They took my earrings, jewelry, makeup, chapstick, shoes, breath mints….and gave me some socks to throw on.
    The hospital had a lot of rules. The other kids in the hospital referred to us as the “Unit One Lock-Up Kids”. And that’s what we were, locked up. They had me flip my head over and searched my curly hair, looking for barrettes or bobby pins that were not allowed. I was not allowed pens, belts, pencils, lip gloss, chewing gum, magazines (unless the staples that bound the pages together were ripped out). I was forced to join group therapy sessions each day, and participate in classroom proceedings. At dinner/lunch/breakfasts, we were required to eat. You see, one of the girls was anorexic, and this was very hard for her. There were a two cutters, me and one other girl Allison, and a few people with eating disorders, but we all had behavior problems…which I found ridiculous. I was a very well-behaved young woman, and I kept to myself at times. I remember once shouting and yelling at a man who worked there, because he decided to take away a few of my points because I did not participate enough in the morning therapy session. Yes, we were judged by a certain person appointed to observe us each day. That person then allotted you points, and if you were moved into the green level, you were allowed to go outside for half an hour monitored by personnel or leave the floor. Well, this particular man marked me down, and for the first time during my stay, I was unable to participate. I stayed behind and realized just how unfair the entire process was, and I let them know. I think it took the team by surprise…they weren’t used to the kids intelligently voicing their opinions on the justice of the program. I cried and screamed, telling them I should not be punished for not wanting to talk about my problems morning after morning with a bunch of kid and nuns who already knew. It was heartrending, and I scared the workers.
    Every meal was eaten with plastic forks and under a watchful eye, and every night’s sleep was interrupted with a flashlight every five minutes to make sure we were breathing. Every bathroom break was taken with a worker outside the unlocked door, and every shower was timed, and every use of crayons/pencils was monitored. Every night we were allowed one hour of free time, in which we could use our Discman or draw or read under supervision. I did a lot of drawing, and colored in a poster of a dragon in which I put up in front of the bars that blocked my window.
    I was let out of the hospital after nine days, and it was nine days too long. It did nothing to help my self-injury, but it did give me an appreciation for things I took for granted. Like a real fork or an extra apple juice. I continued to cut myself and hurt my body, but eventually with the help of an outpatient program….slowed down. I attended dialectical behavior therapy groups and learned coping skills that showed me I was more powerful than a blade. It didn’t all work at once, it happened over the course of months….with a few scars in between.
    It has been three years since I last cut into myself, but I do still struggle. It’s so hard sometimes, but now I have friends and a boyfriend who understand and can help. I realize I am much stronger than my desire to cut, and I’ll probably fight with the urge to cut for the rest of my life. If anyone actually finished reading this long-ass blog, I hope maybe they can see self-injury in a different light. Yes, some people do it for attention, and yes some people just scratch themselves. But some people don’t. A lot of people don’t. A lot of people don’t want to be noticed, and don’t want to be found out. A lot of people just can’t stop. I am a lucky one, because I found my inner strength.
    My thighs are criss-crossed and scarred with hundreds of thin and thick white lines, and will always be a reminder. It’s very difficult and very embarrassing to wear a bathing suit, because I wonder what others will think. But then I tell myself it doesn’t matter what they think, as long as I know how old those scars are and how much they fade with each passing day. I actually got a tattoo placed on my right thigh to cover some of the scars. It took five hours to complete, and hurt, and I remember lifting up my skirt for the man to begin and him saying, “Wow….you were one angry person hun, huh?” And I just smiled at him and said, “Yeah, I guess I was.”

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