*This post contains talk and imagery of self-harm that may be distressing for readers.
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“November 2011 - It’s a good thing I hate pain, or the thin red line on my wrist would be a bigger problem.”
More than a decade later, I still remember the moment quite clearly. It wasn’t the first time I had tried, but it was the first time I broke skin. It hurt like hell. That’s probably why I also wrote that there was no way I could possibly make a habit of this. But in the end, that pain became the reason why I didn’t stop.
It had been a couple years back that I began to struggle with what I felt. For a long time, I thought I was just overly sensitive and that it was all typical, angsty teen stuff. I mean, by all accounts, I did not have a bad life. I had a good home and family life, friends, hobbies, faith, dreams. I was at the peak of discovering my artistic passions and indulged in music, writing, and photography. Yet, despite having all the tools to create a masterpiece, I felt like broken art. I didn't understand. So I ignored the feeling of constant dread that had made home in the pit of my stomach...Ignored it until I couldn’t anymore, and it came flowing out in drops of red.
Despite what many may think, it was never about wanting attention or wanting to die. It was about smothering the feeling inside with a stronger, tangible pain. Because, you see, there are few words that can describe the ache, the stinging, that ripples through your body on those days that nothing feels right. Or the disappointment when a great day still ends with you crying alone in your room. Or the sense of brokenness that clings like a shadow to the other days in between. It was despair of trying to find the reason for the pain and knowing damn well there isn’t one. I felt like I was hurting for nothing, and I needed pain that was for something. In a way, the physical injury gave me refuge from the war raging inside me. This was a real pain I could see and put a name to, and it hurt enough to distract me from the other feelings. The cuts took me away from that ache in my chest, even if only for a moment.
It took me many years to finally accept what I was going through and call it depression. Though I was mortified of speaking it out loud, I chose to seek help in the fall of 2015. The antidepressants helped simmer my moods, but it was ultimately therapy that helped build me back up. That winter was the last time I hurt myself intentionally. I learned how to cope with my thoughts and feelings in a safer, healthier way, and even just being able to speak my truth out loud to someone took such a weight off my chest.
Don’t get me wrong, the mental health battle is ongoing, which I now know is ok. But I still struggle to acknowledge my mental health history. The pale scars left behind by those little red lines feel like ghosts haunting me. I still get scared that people will see them and judge me, and at times I am filled with shame at the sight of them. I recognize the fact that if I had not tried so hard to ignore my struggle, I may have been able to avoid falling down the hole of self-harm. But growing up, mental health awareness was not what it is now. Though there’s still much work to do in the mission of destigmatizing mental illness, it is encouraging to see big conversations being had about. To see movements and organizations push the idea of healthy minds. To have hope that my nieces and nephews, and possibly my own kids, may one day be able to create masterpieces.
