I want to start by telling you that I
am very overwhelmed with the support you have given me, and the
support I see moving into our future. I guess the reason I'm writing
you this is because I have never really been good about telling
people how I feel through speaking, I've always just written it down.
I had to deal with all my feelings and emotions by writing it down or
deal with it by self-harming. So, I've never developed the skills
necessary to be able to discuss my feelings.
I want to get
better at talking about my feelings, but my defence mechanism has
always been to remove myself from a stressful situation and think
about it when I'm alone, which clearly has been detrimental. Some
things are harder to talk about than others. Talking about
abandonment, self-worth, cutting, depression, anxiety and anger are
all hard for me to talk about. I guess I've just always assumed that
people didn't care, or couldn't handle what I were to say.
I don't want to traumatize you with
what I've done to myself all of these years, because I know that you
care about me, but you've made me realize that me being unhappy all
the time is worse than being unhappy for a couple of hours while
talking about how I feel when I feel it.
Self-Harm
You asked me how I used to cut, what
my “procedure” was. I'll let you know all of the details and if I
hurt you in the process of reading this I'm sorry. It would hurt me
to hear you did these things to yourself so I'm warning you ahead of
time. I guess I'll start from the beginning. The first time I
self-harmed was just by dragging my nails on my skin or digging my
nails into my skin. I would feel very overwhelmed with my feelings
and emotions. The stinging pain of hurting myself was the only thing
that distracted me from the feelings and pain. Unfortunately that
stopped being enough. I'd wear hair elastics and would snap them all
the time just to get the adrenaline rush. I started being very
interested in piercings and tattoos and started researching them in
grade 7-8. Because I was so interested in
piercings I started piercing my own ears, and I kept going. It felt
good to be in pain, because I was feeling something. I would take
them all out when I was home, and when I was at school I would have
them all in, it was a lot of work in hindsight. I always felt like I
was hiding my “true” self from my own family. I always had an
affinity to hang out with the misfits, mostly because I identified
with them. Unfortunately a lot of the misfits also were dealing with
depression and other concerns and started using drugs. The first time
I smoked pot I smoked on 420 before grade 9. Because I had already
smoked before high school I was able to smoke with everyone and it
was a very social thing, it was an excuse to stay out of the house. I
feel my smoking pot, drinking alcohol and taking ecstasy all
contributed to a worsening feeling of depression. I began feeling so
numb and uncaring while I was sober, being high was the only thing
that made me feel anything and at the same time helped me feel
nothing... I would be so depressed when I was home, I had no one to
talk to, I had no
healthy way to reach out to others when I was feeling really sad. I
couldn't handle the pain of not caring about life, I wanted to be
alive, I wanted to be happy and I wanted to feel alive, but nothing
inside me allowed for that. I was always self-doubting of my physical
appearance, I had feelings on inadequacy that was only exasperated
with feelings of abandonment. I was mad that
I had moved every year of my life.
Because I was always researching piercings and tattoos I learned about self-mutilation (cutting, burning, erasing etc.) at the time I thought I had found my outlet. I never thought about the repercussions, I always thought the scars would fade, or that I'd be able to hide them forever. At first I would take my razor that I used to shave my legs and try to drag the whole unit across my skin, but all it would do is give me paper cuts. I first did that in the bathroom upstairs at my parents house. I used to stay in the bathroom for hours to avoid everything. I kept seeing pictures of razor blades, but I couldn't figure out how people got razor blades that weren't in a handle. So I took my tweezers and scissors and pried open the razor. At first I was so scared to cut myself, worried that I would cut too deep, I didn't necessarily want to kill myself, I just wanted to feel something. So at first I would “scratch myself” with the blade. But at one point the corner of the blade had grazed my skin and cut me more deeply (still just a tiny scratch). The twinge of pain was uncomfortable at first, until I felt the adrenaline pour through my body. I would only cut myself once at first, I figured just having a very small part on my arm that I could hide with bracelets made it less noticeable to outsiders. I slowly got worse as my life because more and more chaotic. I'd fight with my parents, I'd fight for my freedom but would never gain any. My grades were going down because I was always distracted in class, I'd spend most of my time in class writing about how I felt and I'd spend most of my time outside of school using drugs. When I was home I'd watch tv alone in my room until everyone went to bed and I'd cut, if people were home I'd have a shower, and do it in the shower. I started keeping a tin (an altoid mint tin) filled with things to hurt myself, erasers, safety pins, razors, jewelry, elastics. It felt like a treasure chest oddly enough. I'd write things about how I found my help in steel, that I found my strength in my pain. If you ever want to I can show you my old writing, I have all of it in our home, I just keep them all locked up like my feelings. I began cutting myself more and more every time, because it would take more to get the feeling of adrenaline. I was addicted to it. I became extremely compulsive about doing it, it became a very detrimental habit. I used to write down how many cuts I'd do every night, and I'd take the tissue I bled on, and I'd put them in an envelope, I'd write the date on the envelope, I'd lick it closed and store it away. I remember having hundreds of envelopes that I would hide in a locked brief case under my bed, my blades were in there as well, same with my writings (I've never told anyone that before). It was all private and locked away, overtime i guess my mind took the place of the brief case. My cutting continued to get worse and worse, I slowly was showing the signs of my addiction. I was covered in piercings, I had harmed my body so much that I was covered in scars everywhere. I never was able to wear a bikini around anyone, I'd avoid hanging out with my friends the days they went to the pool. I wasn't able to wear shorts, then I wasn't able to wear pants, I wasn't able to wear t-shirts, tank tops or anything that allowed my arms to be seen. I even had to hide scars on my hands. I felt so alone and isolated in my patterns of behaviour that I just wanted to die, I felt like life was the most painful thing ever presented to me. It seemed easier to quit.
Because I was always researching piercings and tattoos I learned about self-mutilation (cutting, burning, erasing etc.) at the time I thought I had found my outlet. I never thought about the repercussions, I always thought the scars would fade, or that I'd be able to hide them forever. At first I would take my razor that I used to shave my legs and try to drag the whole unit across my skin, but all it would do is give me paper cuts. I first did that in the bathroom upstairs at my parents house. I used to stay in the bathroom for hours to avoid everything. I kept seeing pictures of razor blades, but I couldn't figure out how people got razor blades that weren't in a handle. So I took my tweezers and scissors and pried open the razor. At first I was so scared to cut myself, worried that I would cut too deep, I didn't necessarily want to kill myself, I just wanted to feel something. So at first I would “scratch myself” with the blade. But at one point the corner of the blade had grazed my skin and cut me more deeply (still just a tiny scratch). The twinge of pain was uncomfortable at first, until I felt the adrenaline pour through my body. I would only cut myself once at first, I figured just having a very small part on my arm that I could hide with bracelets made it less noticeable to outsiders. I slowly got worse as my life because more and more chaotic. I'd fight with my parents, I'd fight for my freedom but would never gain any. My grades were going down because I was always distracted in class, I'd spend most of my time in class writing about how I felt and I'd spend most of my time outside of school using drugs. When I was home I'd watch tv alone in my room until everyone went to bed and I'd cut, if people were home I'd have a shower, and do it in the shower. I started keeping a tin (an altoid mint tin) filled with things to hurt myself, erasers, safety pins, razors, jewelry, elastics. It felt like a treasure chest oddly enough. I'd write things about how I found my help in steel, that I found my strength in my pain. If you ever want to I can show you my old writing, I have all of it in our home, I just keep them all locked up like my feelings. I began cutting myself more and more every time, because it would take more to get the feeling of adrenaline. I was addicted to it. I became extremely compulsive about doing it, it became a very detrimental habit. I used to write down how many cuts I'd do every night, and I'd take the tissue I bled on, and I'd put them in an envelope, I'd write the date on the envelope, I'd lick it closed and store it away. I remember having hundreds of envelopes that I would hide in a locked brief case under my bed, my blades were in there as well, same with my writings (I've never told anyone that before). It was all private and locked away, overtime i guess my mind took the place of the brief case. My cutting continued to get worse and worse, I slowly was showing the signs of my addiction. I was covered in piercings, I had harmed my body so much that I was covered in scars everywhere. I never was able to wear a bikini around anyone, I'd avoid hanging out with my friends the days they went to the pool. I wasn't able to wear shorts, then I wasn't able to wear pants, I wasn't able to wear t-shirts, tank tops or anything that allowed my arms to be seen. I even had to hide scars on my hands. I felt so alone and isolated in my patterns of behaviour that I just wanted to die, I felt like life was the most painful thing ever presented to me. It seemed easier to quit.
I was so reckless, apathetic and
ignorant that I didn't realize I was constantly at risk of dying from
overdosing on every drug I could get my hands on, I remember I took
20 wake-up pills (Caffeine pills) and I didn't give a fuck if I would
have died. I spent the whole night puking in my room alone with the
shakes. I told my mom I had food poisoning because I thought she'd be
so mad at me. I
continued to self-harm between the ages of 13-16, and I guess in a
way I still self-harm by not taking care of myself.
When I was 16 I slashed all the way up both arms, all over my legs and
stomach. I laid in the tub for a long time, I lost consciousness (I'm
not sure if I fell asleep or whether I went unconscious from shock of
seeing my body like that) I think I was detached from my body until
that day. When I came back to consciousness I felt extremely weak and
ill. I had to crawl out of the tub, I sat down on the floor outside
of the tub. I hadn't cried in weeks. I was holding it all in at that
point... I never knew how to scream out to the world that I needed
help. I didn't think anyone could help, I had done it all to myself,
and it was up to me to get better. I wrapped my arms up in toilet
paper. The bleeding had stopped. I regained some of my strength after
sitting on the floor for what seemed like hours. I unplugged the tub.
I collected my blades, my tin. I couldn't handle living or being
awake after that I was so deprived of energy. I fell asleep on the
couch (my bed for a year). I woke up the next morning, my whole body
was sore, anytime that I moved I could feel the scabs ripping open. I
threw out my tin of metals that morning, and I haven't cut since
then. But I'd be lying if I didn't think about it everyday.
You allowed me to realize that I went immediately from harming myself to bettering myself. Being successful was now my drug of choice, I'm addicted to feeling good about my accomplishments. I never had thought about it as detrimental, it's what I find confidence in, it's what I find my own strength in until you mentioned it. But I now know I get high off of the satisfaction of doing well. And I hurt myself by saying it's never good enough. Eventually I will have to come to terms with the fact that it's okay that I'm not perfect.
You allowed me to realize that I went immediately from harming myself to bettering myself. Being successful was now my drug of choice, I'm addicted to feeling good about my accomplishments. I never had thought about it as detrimental, it's what I find confidence in, it's what I find my own strength in until you mentioned it. But I now know I get high off of the satisfaction of doing well. And I hurt myself by saying it's never good enough. Eventually I will have to come to terms with the fact that it's okay that I'm not perfect.
Abandonment
Anyone I ever
cared about left me, or I left them by moving or by isolating myself.
It's become a huge pattern in my life. In a way I even abandoned
myself, I gave up on myself and allowed myself to be alone. I used to
think that it was always my fault. I thought for a long time that my
dad didn't think I was important enough to spend time with me. I always isolated myself when I was upset. I think it has a lot
to do with the fact that when I would cry or get upset I would go to my room room. I'd just typically sit against a wall and scream. I
guess I realized it never worked, so I'd stay quiet and just pull my
hair or kick alone. And it only got worse.
I hope that this
can be a start to me sharing more, I will never be able to share all
of the experiences I've had in my life... but i hope this gives you
some insight into why I am the way I am.. thank you for allowing me
to be myself and move forward. You will never know what it means to
me.. and I hope in time I can do the same for you.
I'm better now, there is hope, I am saying these things because it is something I've been avoiding it for a long while and I need a new emotional milestone.
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