Anger does not feel good. I am not an angry type person to begin with. Until about 15 years ago I don't think I could have described to anyone what anger feels like. Probably because of the continual sexual abuse and the f*cked up world I lived in, anger was not an emotion I knew. It was not safe for me to express it, so it got buried along with a lot of other things. I had moments of *losing* it toward other people. I know now that it was anger, but |I did not know it then. For me it was the thought that I was just not going to take it anymore.
When I started harming myself at age 11, it really happened by accident. My father was in prison and my mother had told me I needed to do the dishes. I refused. Then she told me I was grounded. I actually stormed off to my room and flopped down on my bed. I sat there fuming. I know now it was anger. For me, it was a light bulb that went off in my head. Grounded? Who the hell did she think she was? She couldn't ground me! I don't have to take this! I got up and marched down the hallway. She was in the living room, if I remember right, there was some lady there with her. My mother asked me what I thought I was doing. I told her I was leaving. She of course dared to tell me that I wasn't going anywhere. My response was, *watch me!* I went out the door and slammed it behind me. Every part of me was shaking. At that time we were in a third floor apartment. I made it to the stairs and went down just a couple of them and sat. I could still see the bottom of our front door. My whole body was tense. I wanted her to open that door and say something to me. I wanted her to follow me. My thought wasn't for her to try and stop me or try to enforce her authority (she had none and we both knew it) I wanted the satisfaction of defying her again before I actually left. That is what I was thinking as I sat there. In my head daring her to come to that outer hallway. While sitting there watching the door, whatever I was feeling shifted. To me, she was just a bitch who didn't give a shit. For a brief moment anyway, I wanted her to give a shit about me. I remember standing up and giving the door the finger before running down the stairs. I no longer remember where I went or what I did. Not sure how long I was gone either. When I came home it was dark and the house was quiet. Dirty dishes were still in the sink. I don't know what I was thinking or feeling, but I decided to wash them. As I did, a glass broke with my hand inside it. It made a small cut that bled. I rinsed my hand and went to throw the pieces of glass away. It had only broke in two. But, I looked at the small spot of blood, I looked at the dishes I had finished. There was a sense of peace inside me. I don't know if I even know why I did it, but I took the jagged glass and cut from just above my wrist to halfway down my thumb. I did not feel physical pain. I felt a release, a warmth, I felt something so incredibly different from anything I had ever known before. I stopped the bleeding as best I could and finished the couple of dishes that were left. At that moment, a cutter was born.
Whenever I felt something that had my body tense or shaking, I found that if I harmed myself, it went away. I learned quickly to hide the cuts on other parts of my body. I did not want anyone to know or to see. I did not want their attention. I found that banging my head against the wall a few times had the same effect. I also found that doing this made a loud sound and drew attention. I wasn't after attention. I used hammers on my arms and hands, thighs and shins. I picked at the nails on my little toes until I could pull them completely off. That outside pain, took away the pain inside. Understand, that there was no way I could have explained this to anyone back then. I had no concept that I was using physical pain to take away emotional pain. I didn't know a better way. I didn't even know a different way.
As I got older I used it less. It wasn't until I finally went to therapy and started dealing with some of my past that this behavior raised it's ugly head again. My therapist back then helped me understand what I was doing and why. Understanding self harm for what it is, did not help me. Dammit, for me it worked! It kept me from falling over the edge to suicide. I was scared to death of all the emotions that overran me. I was honestly afraid that feeling the emotions would kill me. I wasn't trying to kill myself with cutting, I was trying to stay alive.
Cutting myself or harming myself through the years also sort of morphed into punishing myself. No one else was correcting or punishing me. When I felt that I had really messed up, I harmed myself. I wish I could explain it, I just can't. As screwed up as it sounds, it was a survival tool for me.
I am dealing again with things from my past. I am experiencing emotional pain from time to time. I have better tools for survival now. That doesn't mean that the thought of self harm has gone away. It is still very much an ugly monster I struggle with. I don't remember for sure the last time I purposely harmed myself. My hope is that I never choose that way again.
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