My forearms, that's where I've done damage, where my scars are. My favorite tool is an old school razor blade. While there is a sting, the cut is clean and neat.
This kind of blade is really dangerous for me to use; yet, I like that about it. I like that I have to be precise, exact. It gives me a sense of being in control. Odd? Maybe.
(I can't believe I'm writing like this.)
April 2008 is when I last hurt myself. Sadly, the cuts were so bad that I had to wear long sleeves that entire Summer. I didn't swim once. Shame and regret topped my list of feelings on a daily basis. As much as I tried to hide the injuries from my children, they saw them. My explanation was weak at best, but they were little and they bought it for the most part.
(as I write this my discomfort grows, my stomach hollows, my chest caves in, my heart races, my eyes get teary, my throat tightens)
Today, my son was checking out my arms, counting my scars. He asked if those were the scars I'd gotten when I was fixing a floorboard a couple years ago. My daughter was in the room as well and I had the instinct to tell them the truth. So I did.
I told them that I'd cut myself, that it was a side effect of a strong pain medicine I was taking at the time. I apologized for lying to them but explained that they were too young to understand and that at the time I was freaked out by my behavior. My son kissed my forearm, commented that it must have really hurt and said he didn't mind that I lied. My daughter said that it was ok and not to worry about the lie.
Here's what I didn't tell them. The medicine was oxymorphone extended release. Strange as it may sound, I can imagine that it'd be a fine drug to use on occasion just to relax. As part of a therapeutic regimen, it was a disaster. The feeling of being high as hell, like dope high, didn't stop. After two weeks, I'd reached the end of my mental stamina.
(a panic attack is now under way, heart flip flopping, breathing is laborious, shit!)
With my mental strength diminished, I'd started to disassociate. While I'm quite familiar with disassociation, it isn't something I really do anymore. The episodes are few and far between. And yes, I was
sexually abused as a kid, raped as a teen and thus and such. I've worked on it since the memories hit me following a
suicide attempt in 1992.
For me, there are a few ways to get back in the moment when I disassociate but because I was wasted on the oxymorphone, I could come up with only one.
Self harm. Sad. True. I've not done it again since then. It's a behavior that hasn't been useful to me for a long time, but it's an old stand by. It's there in case of emergency and I was in an emergency situation.
I don't condone self harm and wouldn't encourage it but I understand it. I'm not going to feel bad for doing it. It started during a very out of control time in my life. I was a kid acting out in every which way and had no clue why. The sexual abuse was never my fault; rape, not my fault; incest, not my fault. SI was a textbook response as was anorexia, bulimia, anxiety and drug addiction.
Today, I came clean just a little bit more. Perhaps one day I'll set it all free and fully live.
I consider the ability to ask for help as a coping skill, too, a survival skill. I've made calls, visited the websites of local mental health centers and talked with my friends that work in the field. By casting that net, I was surprised at what came back.
