Posts Tagged ‘cutting’

28 Feb

Self-Injury Awareness Day 2013

Posted by Dayle Lynne in Health, Mental Health. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , .

***This post could contain triggers.***

Self-Injury Awareness Day

It’s been nearly 20 years since the first time I cut myself. I can remember the events of that night easily, but I don’t recall the thought process. I doubt there was much of one at all.

Thinking back on that night is like an out-of-body experience now. I see myself from behind . . . reaching on top of the refrigerator (I don’t know what I was looking for) and finding the box of industrial razor blades. I pulled a few out of the box and carried them with me into the living room. I sat on the reclining chair and looked at the notebook that sat on the end table, the one with the words, “I’m fucked up” written in dark pencil, the same words traced over and over again with a heavy hand.

I pulled a razor out of its paper covering and felt the cool metal between my fingers. I lightly dragged it across the back of my hand for several minutes before actually breaking the skin. I watched the drops of blood form as I pressed a little deeper. I don’t remember pain. It was more of a trance. I kept dragging, kept digging, kept pressing until the back of my hand contained nearly a dozen lines of blood . . . there was no pattern, no rhythm.

It didn’t occur to me until well afterwards that people might ask where the scratches came from . . . they weren’t really cuts . . . not yet . . . that would take a couple more weeks. I explained away the marks as cat scratches. Nobody questioned it, not even those who knew my cat only had claws in the back. I was smarter the next time. I moved my cuts to my upper thighs . . . far away from anyone’s curious eyes.

I only cut for 2 years because at 16 I discovered burning. The burning was more spiritual than the cutting, it was also more painful and the scars lasted longer . . . and there was no mess to clean up. I’d flick the flame on my lighter and hold it upside down. I was mesmerized as I watched the flame heat the metal. When the metal was hot enough, I’d press it into my thigh . . . hold it there until it throbbed, until the heat from the metal dissipated. I’d take a deep breath and my entire body would relax. The warmest calm would wash over me. It was my escape from . . . . everything.

I burned to distract myself from the emotional pain. I burned to feel when there was only numb. I burned to relax when I was stressed. I burned when I was happy because happy was so foreign. Any conflict, any issue could be solved with my lighter.

I stopped self-injuring on a regular basis shortly before I turned 18, but the struggle has never ended. I slip up every few years . . . there’s always that longing . . . always that desire for the calm. I don’t think I ever make it through a day without thinking about it. I’ve even glorified the cutting in my mind and that was definitely not my method of choice. Cutting never made me feel the way burning did.

Tomorrow is Self-Injury Awareness Day. I didn’t know that until last week . . . . I didn’t even know we had a day. I don’t know if that really means anything, but I thought I should take the time to write a little bit about my experiences. I’ve written about them before . . . and I’ll write about them again . . . because the more I write about it, the easier it is for me to accept it as part of myself . . . and the more I write about it, the more I am able to connect with others who understand, others who have been there, others who are there . . . and the more I write about it, just maybe, the more people who don’t understand will start to try to understand.

Photo Credit

16 Mar

Seeing what we don’t want to see

Posted by Dayle Lynne in Life, Parenting, The Write On Project. Tagged: , , , , .

This post is a part of The Write On Project
Topic: Warning Signs

If you are a self-injurer, the following post could contain triggers.

I was 14 years old when I cut myself for the first time. I wasn’t very adept at it. I used an industrial razor blade I found on top of the refrigerator. I dragged it across the back of my hand, making scratches more than cuts. For several months, that’s all I did. But the scratches became a bit deeper each time, drew just a little bit more blood.

They may have been shallow, but they were noticeable. I was asked on several occasions what happened. I told everyone that my cat had scratched me. They all, without exception, easily accepted that . . . even though most of them knew my cat only had claws on her back paws.

The more they asked, the more I learned to hide my marks. By the time I was making actual cuts, they were on my upper thighs. I remember going into a panic before my 8th grade day trip to a pool. I tore apart my dresser for a t-shirt that was long enough.

I lived with an amazing mother. She loved me, cared for me, talked to me, and comforted me. And still, she was painfully clueless. Every so often she’d catch a glimpse of the darkness inside of me. She’d sit on my bed and I’d see pain in her eyes. I was ashamed, and I used my gift for words to convince her that everything was wonderful.

Maybe it wasn’t so much my gift as it was her desire to believe what I was saying.

She didn’t know I had a bottle of “just in case” pills in my medicine cabinet. She didn’t know that every time they switched her cancer meds, I’d steal a handful of the old ones. I never did have any idea what those pills would have done had I taken them. I pretty much figured that enough of anything would get the job done.

I always had a knack for convincing people I wasn’t crazy, but looking back, I think I was ridiculously obvious. I think, “If I saw me back then, I’d know I needed help.”

But as I watch my daughter grow up in a world where pain is so much more easily accessed than it was when I grew up, I begin to doubt myself. Will I notice if she gets panic attacks? Will I sense if depression sets it? Will I know if she cuts? Or takes drugs? Or any number of other things?

As a parent, will I notice the signs or will my desire for everything to be okay keep me in a fog of denial? And if I do notice, how will I deal with it?

A lifetime of my own dysfunction has taken on a new meaning now that I’m a parent. I may have several years before I need to worry about these things, but I’ve never been one to allow time to give me comfort.

There are countless commercials, made-for-TV-movies, public service announcements, and articles about talking to your kids, listening to them, and watching for signs of self-destructive behavior. But like everything else in life, it is all so much easier said than done.

The truth is I’m terrified that my daughter will be like me. I’m terrified because quite honestly, I don’t know what would have helped me back then. On the occasions when I was confronted, I became defensive. I put on my best, “I’m better now” face and swore I’d never do it again. They always believed me.

I think it’s human nature to believe those things we want to be true.

I don’t have the answers. Sometimes, I think I should. I think experience should give me an upper hand. But in the end, I’m just another parent worrying about doing what is best for her child.

And the best I can do is make a promise to myself and to my daughter that my eyes, my ears, and my arms will always be open.

9 Oct

A seemingly insignificant but defining moment

Posted by Dayle Lynne in Life, Mental Health. Tagged: , , , , , , .

It was perfect once, long ago, in the days when old Catholic churches were castles and angels danced amongst the stars. I watched them, always dreaming, always wishing, finding myself so far away. I saw things then. A child’s eyes, so pure, so untainted, can see so many things. They never believed me, but then again, how could they? A “fairy” flying next to the car window became the joke of a half a dozen drunk men, crushing the dreams of an innocent child. I think that’s the day I grew up, the day I became a skeptic. Of all the horrors I had seen, all the violence I spent my nights listening to behind closed doors, nothing belittled me as much as that moment, nothing haunted me as much as their laughter. They taught me so much that night. They taught me to suppress the magic that was inside of me. They taught me to give up the sanctity of belief and to trust fear instead. They taught me not to be me. And through the years I have carried that taunting with me, holding onto it as if it were precious.

That weight of adulthood at 7 years old, that knowledge of cruelty, has held me down too long. I spent the rest of my childhood plagued by insecurities, always looking behind my back to see who was talking about me, who was pointing, who was laughing. I was, of course, one of their favorite targets. The boys, especially, loved me as their joke. Walking home from the bus with tears on my cheeks, hiding in my bedroom, dreading going outside. I wanted to collapse inside my bubble, survive solely on my fantasies of a world where I was different . . . better . . . good enough.

Through the already tumultuous teen years, I found myself slipping away into numbness. Awkwardness and low self-esteem found new meaning inside of me, so much more than the typical angst. But I found my escape. My addiction, so pure to me, saved me through those years. It started with an industrial razor blade I found on top of the refrigerator. I held it, almost in a trance, and stared at it for a long time. It was so natural, as if meant to be, to drag it across my skin, watch the blood flow as if it were happening to someone else. And for the first time in a long time, I felt something. I hid my scars well, always aware of eyes that were most likely not even watching me.

Things changed, life changed and yet I remained the same . . . fragile and scared. A new environment, house, family, school, a new life, a new start, but it didn’t make much of a difference. Only that my tool of choice became a lighter. Oh, the high I would receive watching the flame burn the metal, almost spiritual. And then pressed against my arms and thighs, pain seared through me in the shape of little u’s. It consumed me, gave me meaning.

I can still see those scars . . . nearly four years since my last self-inflicted burning and I can still see those scars, almost glowing . . . for my eyes only. They are there to forever remind me of the darkness that will always exist deep inside of me. But things are different now. I have found my inner peace, my serenity, my trust. And I can see now that those who once held me down only did so out of their own sicknesses. I no longer fear them; they have no power over me. And their words are meaningless. They cannot destroy me. I am still unsure of just exactly what I saw that night, as my father drove me home, most likely drunk. Whether it was a fairy, an angel, God or Goddess, it was there to protect me. I know now that it was always there and has not left me since. I still have not reached the point of seeing once again, but I can feel, and the warmth is overwhelming, enough to bring back that which I had lost. I smile now. I dance at bus stops and wish on falling stars. Let them point and laugh and talk about me behind my back. Let them have their vices. My self-worth is no longer dependent upon their validations. I am me again . . . and loving all of my imperfections!

***I wrote this on October 29, 2005. I reread it often. It reminds me of the darkness, but more importantly, it reminds me of the light. I certainly do not blame all of my troubles on that one experience, but it’s an experience that has never left me, and it certainly holds a special meaning. I wrote more about what it means, for me, to be an adult self-injurer several months ago.***

Photo Credit

24 Mar

I am an adult self-injurer

Posted by Dayle Lynne in Life, Mental Health. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , .

I wrote this a bit ago . . . before I started blogging. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to post it. It’s a tough subject. I’ve always been honest about my self-injury when talking to others, but writing about it . . . posting it for the world to see . . . that’s an entirely different story. Recent events have brought this to my mind . . . I figure that two things can come from this. One ~ the catharsis that always comes from sharing something so deep . . . Two ~ maybe, just maybe someone out there in cyber land will get something positive from this. So, all fear aside, here it is.

I am an adult self-injurer. I qualify that with “adult” because it is almost instinctual for someone to picture a teenage girl when they hear words like “self-injury”, “cutter”, or “self mutilation”.  It’s true that the first time I took a razor to my skin I was 14 years old. I am now 31. I don’t self-injure nearly as much as I did in my teen years. In fact, it has been almost two years since I last harmed myself physically. I am much better able to control my urges now. I have a support system, medication for my anxiety disorders, and I have learned some alternatives to self-injurious behaviors. All of this said, those urges still exist, sometimes daily.

I am impressed with the recent surge in the public’s awareness of self-injury. Every time I see a new TV movie, book, magazine article, etc. covering the facts about self-injury, it gives me a sense of hope. There are still many out there who don’t understand, who think it is attention seeking behavior, or as evidenced by a friend’s Facebook post not too long ago, “emo” behavior. (Her post: “I wish my grass was emo so it would cut itself.”) But all in all, people are beginning to see the truth behind the behavior and for that, I am grateful.

The next step, I believe, is to show the world that it is not solely a teenager’s affliction. Yes, most self-injurers begin in their teen years, but for many of us it does not stop there. I’ve seen episodes on shows like Degrassi, 7th Heaven, and Law and Order where the portrayals of cutting are very accurate, but still they are all teens. I know I am not alone, but I feel ashamed to admit that I still struggle to stay safe because I “should’ve gotten over that by now”.  For me, I know it is an emotional addiction. Whether it is a break up, a death, or simply feelings of inadequacy, my first instinct is to cut or burn myself. It is the easiest, simplest way I know to control what I am feeling. I can still visualize the entire process, and I long for that release. It is not something I ever see going away.

In high school, I found myself avoiding pool parties or wearing oversized t-shirts when I went to the beach for fear of someone seeing my scars. Today, I put off what is supposed to be annual full body dermatologist check-ups and avoid turning the lights on when I’m intimate with a partner. I’m even afraid to talk to a therapist about it. The last two that I mentioned it to basically gave me a “you’re too old for that” look. I feel as if self-injury is still not taken seriously if you are beyond your early twenties.

The interesting thing is that I had an easier time talking about it 15 years ago. When I talk about it now, I mostly refer to it has an “I used to” kind of thing. And while the actual execution of the act is incredibly infrequent, the thoughts and the struggle are still always there. Like an alcoholic who will always be an alcoholic . . . I will always be a self-injurer.

I am an adult self-injurer. I am not alone. I am working on not being ashamed.

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