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Alot of people see scars on others and they stare....whether they are thinking "oh my God" or are simply seeing what they think is a "freak". But what they fail to see is the pain behind the scars, the causes, and the reasons.
People self-injure (SI) for different reasons. Some were sexually abused as a child. Some were physically or emotionally abused. Or some just didn't know how else to handle the pain that they were feeling inside.
What you are about to read
is not excusing what I do. It is simply to show those of you who
don't self-injure the why's and the how's of it...and to show those of
you who do self-injure that you are not alone.
When I was 10 years old, I was raped by my babysitter (who also happened to be my 27 year old cousin). He told me afterward that if I told anybody that I would get into big trouble, and to punish me he would do it again. So I said nothing.....until he did it again a few weeks later. I plucked up the courage to tell my mother and step-father. Both of them screamed and yelled at me. My step-father raised his hand to me to hit me. I ran and locked myself in my room. The whole time they were yelling, my cousin was sitting at the table smiling at me.
Up until that year I had lived with my father. After being punished by my mother and step-father, they sent me back to live with my father due to their "disgust" in me. They did not tell my father why they sent me back, and I was too afraid to tell him because I did not want him to yell at me too. I was afraid to show him any kind of hurt that I was feeling because I knew he would ask. I built up such fury and anger at myself and the rest of the world, and one day I picked up a razor blade and cut myself because I hated myself so much. That same night, I swallowed a bottle of asprin because I wanted to be dead. I was still...only 10 years old. The night that I overdosed, my father called me into the lounge room and told me how much he loves his little girl, and that if there was anything troubling me, he wanted me to know that I can come to him and he will protect me from the bad. He gave me a hug and I said goodnight to him.
After my father went to bed that night, I threw up. I felt so sick. I didn't want to feel sick...I wanted to be dead. I was so confused. My father telling me that he loved me, perhaps I should tell him. But I decided not to because I was still too afraid.
The next morning I had a very loud ringing in my ears and I could not hear anything else. I couldn't walk. I couldn't see. My father had left for work (as he was a shift-worker) and my sister had already left for school. It was just me at home. I slowly walked into the study, and found my pencil case. I pulled the pencil sharpener apart and pushed the blade as hard as I could into my skin as I sliced. It bled...alot...and I felt a strange "rush" come over me, almost like adrenaline. I did it again and again and again. It felt like all the hurt inside me was escaping. I couldn't feel the pain as I cut....all I could feel was relief.
I bandaged my arm before my father came home. That night it hurt, but somehow I felt like I had accomplished something. I found a way to temporarily conquer the pain inside my body. What started as a one-time-thing eventually turned into a daily ritual. Every time I got angry, upset, or just filled with emotions that I could not deal with, I would cut.
I cut on a daily basis, until seven years later when my best friend (Kristin) put a gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger. In the years following Kris' suicide, I was consumed by her death. I spent every Christmas Day sitting by her grave, asking her why she did it, blaming myself. To this day, I still wonder if I contributed in any way to her suicide.
After Kristin died, I would SI on rare occasions. I began smoking very heavily and smoked about 50 cigarettes per day. It "calmed" me. Even when my fiance would fight and argue and he would hit me, I was able to refrain from cutting. After all, he did it all for me.
In June 2000, I was triggered to such a degree that, without even thinking, I reverted back to my old ways. A woman from overseas came to Australia and sent me an email with a picture attachment. It was called "body bits". The picture had a picture of a human head, arms and legs (all bloodied) and on a butcher's table. Her email told me "this is you". Before I knew it I had picked up a steak knife and sliced my arms in several places. I was stunned, in shock, disgusted...and shortly afterwards had a nervous breakdown.
I now take tranquilisers, pain killers and anti-depressants to get me through the day. My sister calls it the prescription cocktail (Zoloft 200mg, Xanax 0.5mg, Serepax 30mg, Avomine, Temaze, Mersyndol Forte...just to name a few). Amazingly enough, I felt "normal" again.
To be continued..........(this is triggering me badly...sorry)
