…But You Are Never Alone…

DISCLAIMER:
I am writing this series as an account of my own history with depression, self-injury, and suicidal thoughts. My intention is, in part, to reach a sense of catharsis, but also to help raise awareness about a serious and often misunderstood mental illness. Depression and self-injury are real and painful. Some of the words and images in these posts may be triggering to some people, especially those with similar behavioral tendencies or a history of depression or self-injury. Please proceed with caution if that applies to you and if you haven’t already, I urge you to reach out for help.

This is part three of four of a story that I keep very close to me. This particular part is intended to expand somewhat on part two. First on the timeline that chronicles my cutting and second on the mentality of the process. Understand, though, that it is often very difficult to understand the psychology of a person who cuts and it is easy to call their behavior cowardly or selfish. I assure you: it is rarely those things. As usual, I encourage discussion and questions, as those are the only ways that people learn more about this topic.

I didn’t know it at the time, but at the mall that day my friends were extremely uncomfortable. I understand why now, but back then I didn’t. I also didn’t realize that it was the beginning of a large strain on many of my closest friendships.
I remember arriving at the mall and walking in only to run into one of my closest friends. For a long time I could remember exactly what she said to me, but as I try and recall it now the words seem to be lost. What I do remember, though, is that she came up to me and hugged me. I could see that she was trying to hold back tears and failing. I was not the first of her close friends to go through something like this. In my mind, she said something to me that conveyed a combination of anger and sadness. I remember her being deeply upset by the sight of my arm and also openly angry with me for walking around with it out in the open.

While I could see that it affected her, it didn’t come close to stopping me from cutting.

As time went on I began to see that my friends were distancing themselves from me. Nobody talked about it and everybody danced around conversations with me as though they were worried they’d say something that would send me deeper into depression and further along the path of cutting. Honestly, that was more hurtful than anything they could have said. I felt alone. I felt like all of my friends had abandoned me. All I wanted was for everybody to treat me the same. I was the same person, I was just going through different challenges and feelings. Nobody did, though. I felt like I was drowning and my friends, in their lifeboats around me, would talk to me about the fish and the boats, but nobody would acknowledge that I was drowning.

My mom told me one day that she knew I was cutting and that I didn’t have to hide it.
Within a week of that she asked me outright to stop. I exploded. How dare she tell me I was allowed to be safe and exposed in my home and then ask me to stop the one thing that was helping me cope?

Cutting, to me, was just that: a coping mechanism. For a long time I was terrible at expressing and dealing with feelings. Physical pain, though, was nothing. When I would cut it would take my mind away from my sadness and anger. I would no longer dwell on the past or feel like drowning. It was my lifeboat. There was no logic behind it; I knew there were dangers in doing it. I could tell that I was being alienated by my friends. It was all I had, though. The feeling of a blade to my skin was, in a sense, pleasing. It hurt, but in a way that made me want to continue. I was addicted.

I cut with a plastic knife, the blade from my pencil sharpener, a kitchen knife, a paperclip, and tweezers.

Whenever I hurt emotionally or felt lost, I would cut.
I no longer imagined myself walking into oncoming traffic or considered how I could die, instead I looked at the blades I would use as miniature therapy sessions with myself. No matter how many friends left me stranded, I always had sharp objects to comfort me.

I write this and wonder how foolish so many people must see me as, but it made perfect sense at the time. It still does. Do you have a blanket or stuffed animal that you’ve owned since you were born? Does it offer you a sense of safety and comfort, a sense of ‘home?’ That’s what cutting was for me.

There was one night, and I forget if this was before or after I began cutting, that everything was too much to handle. I sat in my room in college completely broken down. My two best friends from college, Mike and Ike, didn’t know what to do with me. They called my sister who was out at a bar with her friends. Within minutes she was in my room, though as soon as she saw me she didn’t have much of an idea of what to do either. Shortly after that, her roommate, MRH, showed up as well. The rest of the night was spent in near silence. Maybe we put on a movie. They just sat with me.

These people probably don’t know the extent of how grateful I am for them and what they did and gave up for me and unfortunately I don’t think I’ll ever be able to show them. Not just that one night, but throughout the entire year.

If any of you read this: Sister, Mike and Ike, MRH, #2, Nick… you all are the reason I get to write this story and finish with part four. Thank you.

To Be Continued…

Additional Information:

http://www.twloha.com/vision/story/

Crisis Hotline: 1-800-SUICIDE