It starts off as a speck of uncertainty, then throughout the day, it rolls around in my gut until it gathers the strength to push itself up to my chest, and then digs its claws into my heart. At this point, one who has no problem exposing their vulnerability, will breathe and let the tears flow. I, on the other hand, will attempt to swallow them, only to experience a more frightening result.
About seven weeks ago, I would have grabbed my knife, and cut to release the endorphins that would work to temporarily soothe my anguish. Now, I have to use distraction, and other coping techniques to eliminate it as an option. I wish I could write this without saying I don't think about it every day, but that would be a fallacy. There are numerous times in my journal, especially recently, that I have fought the urge to return to my "go-to" method of dealing with misery. From 4/11:
"I am losing it. I am so on edge, the only thing I can think about is drinking and/or cutting. I cannot do that. I don't care how loud he is in telling me no one will believe me. I don't care how sharp the play backs are."From 4/14:
"I am incredibly sleep deprived due to the nightmares...it is destroying my patience. My ability to utilize coping skills is exhausted because I'm too tired to function normally...I cannot cut...I will not cut...but today I am weak."What has kept me cut free for this long is the ability to hold myself accountable when I start slipping. I have a support system that I employ in order to prevent me from falling through the cracks. Also, knowing the biology behind self-harm, enables me to make rational decisions. Just like drinking, each time I engaged in cutting, it would take more of an effort to create a sustainable effect. This is why there are people who cut, never intending to commit suicide, that die accidentally.
A decade ago, I didn't have the coping skills I do now, or a support system to override my irrationality. When I first engaged in self-harming behaviors, it was minimalistic. I would snap a hair tie against my wrist over and over until the burn was substantial enough to calm me down. When that wore out, I used a sewing needle to perform small cuts. When that wasn't enough, I snatched an X-Acto knife from an art class. That is when my cutting escalated to a point where I had to go out of my way to hide the scars on my arms.
I couldn't tell you how I pulled myself away from cutting when I was teenager. My guess is that I became preoccupied with music, theater, and school to the point where I wasn't allowed the luxury to visit dark thoughts.
Now I have tattoos that cover the faint scars from a decade ago, but new ones have arisen in other areas. In order to hide my return to self-harm, I have cut my thighs and abdomen. The scars are still fresh and ugly.
My husband was angry, as he should be, when he first discovered I had fallen back into the habit. His reaction would immediately shut me down, and disable me from being honest with him when I started to slip. Over time, and with help from my therapist, he has grown to understand the origins of self-harm, and has aided me with "grounding" techniques when I lose sense of reality.
Just when I think he is going to change his mind he continues to amaze me with his love and support. When I tried to cover the scars while dressing the other day, he pulled my hands away from my legs and said, "What are you doing? There is no reason to hide! Do not be ashamed of your pain."
I am not ashamed of my pain, but I am also not free from the temptation to cut. What I am still learning, is that it is okay to reach out to those in my support system. To call for help, is not a sign of weakness, because in doing so, I am not cutting, and that is true strength.
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