Skeleton #2
On a sunny yet cool morning, June 25, 2007 I said a tearful goodbye to my then five and six year old daughters and my husband at the Amtrak train station. I boarded the train bound for Chicago, and then on to Denton, Texas (via Dallas). It was the first time I ever traveled alone so many states away from Michigan. The trip was supposed to last two days, and I knew my stay in Denton would be at least 30 days. I'd never been gone from the girls and my husband for more than a week. I knew if I didn't make this trip at that time, I would never go. I settled back into my seat, turned on my iPod, and as the music started I struggled not to cry. I felt guilty. Guilty for doing this to them, guilty for lying to my girls and extended family, but I knew this was what I had to do. I sunk down in the seat and reflected on how I'd gotten to this place.
When I was 14 years old, I wanted to die. That feeling followed me for as long as I could remember. I felt trapped, unloved, unwanted, and nothing I ever did would change that. I was alone. No matter what I did, I knew it would never be enough for my parents. The rules constantly changed; the rage directed toward my sister and I was more than I could handle anymore. I wanted to die. Running away wasn't an option. I had nowhere to go and no money. Telling the police wouldn't do any good, my parents knew everyone in the judicial system. No one would believe me. I wasn't thin enough, I wasn't pretty enough, and I certainly wasn't perfect. I was flawed. I needed to end the suffering.
I sat at my desk in the candlelight with my oboe reed knife. I wondered how painful it would really be to slit my wrists and kill myself. The tears slid down my face as I tried to quietly cry without alerting my mother. I didn't want her to see me cry. She'd just say "knock that shit off", and my dad said crying is for babies. I learned early on not to let anyone see me cry. I learned to suppress just about every emotion in front of them, and later, in front of everyone. I felt numb. I felt horrible despair inside. I was dirt. I felt lower than dirt. I deserved to die. I wanted to die.
I picked up the knife and hesitantly dragged it across my wrist. I felt no pain. None. The second time and the third time I did it, I still felt no pain. I saw the blood run down my wrist and pool onto my desk. I sat there, and felt relief. I didn't need to die. I just needed to punish myself for being shit, nothing, not worthy of happiness--of love. I cleaned myself up with the only thing I had in my room: Rubbing alcohol normally used for cleaning the corks on my oboe, and Kleenex. I wiped my reed knife clean, and made sure everything was clean. I quickly covered the cuts with makeup, and made sure it was hidden under my watch. Later that night, I flushed the Kleenex. No one would ever find out. I had discovered how to make the emotional pain go away, even if it was briefly.
Six months later, my parents did find out. My mentally disabled sister ratted me out. I was forced to go to a therapist. My mother screamed at me, "You will go, or I will have your ass locked up in the loony bin with all the other crazies!" I had no choice. I was being called crazy. Anyone who is crazy goes to a "shrink" in the 80s. I felt stigmatized. I was forced to go, although the first two times I sat there silently. He wouldn't believe me even if I told the truth. Cutting was virtually unknown back then. I wasn't trying to kill myself, I just wanted the emotional pain to go away. Have the outside look like what I felt on the inside. Needless to say, I spent six months in therapy to finally have my therapist say, "You have controlling parents. You just need to mark time until you're 18 and then leave." What therapist says that? A bad one. Ironically in December of 2007, he was convicted of one misdemeanor count of Criminal Sexual Conduct in the fourth degree with a patient and had his license suspended. Some help, huh?
I eventually convinced my parents I was "cured" and the inspections (aka strip searches) finally stopped. I'll never forget the day my mother asked, "Why do you wear a seatbelt if you want to die so badly?" Yep, loving to the end. I just switched from cutting to other forms of self-abuse for a year. Then I learned how to hide where I could cut on my body where my parents wouldn't find it. When I left for college, I was the master at hiding it. It had a name: Self-injury. It was a secret I would hide from everyone, including physicians.
Here I sat 23 years later on a train bound to a treatment center I chose. I wanted to stop cutting myself. It was taking over my life, invading every thought throughout each day, and I needed help. There was no intervention that forced me to go. I had never reached the proverbial "rock bottom". So why did I decide to go to treatment? It simply didn't take the pain away anymore. It wasn't working. I was at a crossroads. Either learn to stop, or move on to another dangerous form of self-injury: burning. This was not a legacy I wanted for my girls. They had no idea, and still have no idea I ever injured. I never was hospitalized for self-injury, and my medical expertise prevented the need for stitches. I changed places of where I injured so as to avoid major vessels and tendons. Yes, it was pathological. Yes, I did think of those things prior to injuring myself. I just decided it was time to stop. It was time to stop the recording in my head of the negative things my parents said about me. This was my only chance of breaking this cycle. I was scared. I had quite a lot of time to think about what I was doing. I knew it was the right thing to do. I was mentally ready to do the work needed.
It was the most intense, emotional, gut-wrenching 30 days I'd ever experienced. I had to do it alone. Sure I had a group of other self-injurers that were there working through similar problems as mine. I finally didn't feel alone. I didn't feel ashamed. I knew I didn't have to suffer anymore. I discovered when I felt emotional pain and suppressed it, I felt pain physically in the form of muscle and joint pain. I learned self-injury is just a bad coping mechanism for emotional pain. I learned how to feel again, and to not hide those feelings. I learned how to deal with my negative thinking. I also had to confront my "mother" through a staff member that played her very well in a role-playing exercise. I grieved the loss of the parents I wished I had, but never got. I laid bare every skeleton I had in my closet, and was not judged for it. I discovered part of myself that was strong, and independent. I learned how to trust again.
I returned a better mother, wife, and sister. I put up boundaries between my parents and myself. They are not entitled to my life. Sure they would be mad, and I was shown how to handle that. As I was told by a wonderful psychologist, "You're going to be wrong in their eyes. Just which side of wrong do you want to be on? The one that is in your best interest, or the one that contorts who you are into something you're not?" I know I will never get that approval, that unconditional love, the non-judgmental parents.
I had one relapse since 2007. I've gone from injuring 2-3 times a day, to going two years with only one instance of self-injury. I have a wonderful neuropsychologist whom I've been seeing for nearly ten years now. She is amazing. Through the intense work I've done, I've decided I want to set this secret free. I've been holding onto it for way too long. I'm going to show you my scars. Most are on my upper arms, but essentially, my entire body has many scars on it somewhere. It is what it is. I cannot take it back. These scars are proof I survived. I'm still alive. They remind me of the path I had to travel to this point and that I no longer have to prove to anyone the pain I endured by wearing it on my body. So, I am releasing it, and moving on.
Left Wrist:
Right wrist:
Right forearm:
Left upper arm:
Right upper arm:
If you know of someone who self-injures or need more information on self injury, please visit the Self Abuse Finally Ends/S.A.F.E. Alternatives website or call 1-800-DONTCUT (1-800-366-8288).
For a wonderful support group that doesn't have triggering images or discussion of the act itself, please join NoFEAR (SAFE Alternatives approved) You don't even have to talk. It's not like other groups. It really helped me take the first step to stop self-injuring.
Posted by kitterztoo at 10/19/2009 8:30 PM 
Categories: Skeletons
Tags: emotional pain skeletons cutting feelings low self-esteem abuse secrets self-injury SAFE Alternatives scars emotions self-conscious
Categories: Skeletons
Tags: emotional pain skeletons cutting feelings low self-esteem abuse secrets self-injury SAFE Alternatives scars emotions self-conscious
So wonderful that you are now able to face your cutting problem and let it go the way you have. The fact that you've posted this and gone willingly to the treatment is a true testiment to your desire to be better. I don't know you at all, but I support you wholeheartedly! Good luck to you!
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"These scars are proof I survived."
Bravo to you. I'm proud of you: it was extremely brave to seek out treatment, and brave to post your story here. You DID survive and you'll continue to do so. *hugs*
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How fucking brave are you for this? Brava. There really isn't anything else to say.
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Good for you. Thank you for sharing your story, I'm sure it was difficult!
Bravo!
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Thank you so much for posting this. It took a lot of courage, first to seek treatment and then to share so openly. I hope one day to have the courage to share my struggles as honestly as you have.
Kudos to you.
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