Today is a milestone for me. It is an achievement I never thought I’d reach, a headline I didn’t expect to read. Today marks ten years since the last time I self-harmed (September 24, 2010). Ten years! That may seem trivial to some, but for me, it is such a feat. I am incredibly proud of myself for staying clean this long and not relapsing. What follows is a graphic, intimate description of some of the darkness I waded through and overcame more than a decade ago.
Trigger Warning!
November 2006
In late 2006, I self-harmed for the first time. I’m not even sure what started it. I think a combination of undiagnosed depression and self-confidence issues left me feeling a bit hopeless and scattered. I constantly felt that my friends didn’t really like me or that I’d never get a boyfriend because I wasn’t skinny enough or pretty enough. I wanted a life of adventure and spontaneity, but was terrified of stepping out of my comfort zone. Part of me wonders if self-harm was my way of punishing myself for not being “good enough”. The more likely scenario is that I needed something I could control, something to distract me from the unfamiliar emotions I was feeling. Cutting was a release – a break from the constant “what ifs” bouncing around in my head. For that brief moment, there was just the physical pain and nothing more. It was liberating (in the worst way).
Late 2006-June 2007
The cutting was fairly infrequent at the beginning. I only turned to self-harm if no conventional coping mechanisms were working. It was always a conscious, deliberate decision – a last resort. Since I was in control of the situation, I wasn’t concerned that my actions warranted intervention of any kind. Did I need a less destructive coping mechanism? Yes, of course. My previous coping mechanism, though, had been eating (‘comfort food’) and the weight gain associated with it had shattered my already fragile self-image, so this felt like a better overall solution. After all, I could stop anytime I wanted.
July 2007
Then, on Fourth of July weekend, my first trauma occurred. I’m not going to delve into it, since there is already a separate posting about it (‘The First Trauma’), but in short, I was assaulted on a flight overseas. The FBI technically defines what happened to me as ‘digital rape’. That flight changed everything. At the time, I didn’t understand the gravity of the situation. I thought somehow I had indicated that I was interested. I internalized that confusion, guilt, and misplaced blame for over a year.
July 2007-August 2008
In that year, things took a turn. I was a completely different person. I felt broken and damaged. Since I didn’t realize I had been assaulted, I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t actively think about it, but it was affecting every aspect of my being. My self-confidence took a nosedive and I started hating my body. It seemed disgusting and unrecognizable, but I couldn’t understand why or what had changed.
The cutting escalated rapidly. It went from being a last-resort coping mechanism to my go-to. Soon it was the only thing that worked at all to (temporarily) relieve the complicated emotions I was feeling. My cuts were fairly superficial, but the sting was enough to distract me from having to confront my feelings. If I was having a hard day at school, I would go to my car at lunch and self-harm with whatever I could find. I wasn’t picky – paperclips, pushpins, scissors, etc. Nothing was off limits. Other times, I sat in the backseat and carved inspirational words into my thigh in hopes that when I saw them, I’d be reminded that I was “strong” or “beautiful” and I wouldn’t feel as vulnerable. It didn’t make a difference. Inside I was broken.
I never usually talk about this part of my past because of how it sounds to other people. It comes off as dark and twisted or disgusting and disturbing. The stigmas surrounding self-harm and “cutting” are damaging. A lot of people strongly believe that it is a “cry for attention” or a juvenile “act of rebellion”. I can’t speak for others, but I can confidently say that that is not the case for everyone.
I didn’t want an intervention. I didn’t want attention. I didn’t want questions or judgement or dirty looks or help. Part of me didn’t think there was a problem that warranted help. I was just marking up MY body. It was mine – no one else’s.
I went out of my way to cover my scars and fresh cuts. I was constantly paranoid that someone would see them and would ask me how I got them or, worse, would know exactly how I got them and would judge me for it. I started wearing sweatshirts in the summer and wearing chunky bracelets when long sleeves weren’t an option. I didn’t want to risk anyone noticing and taking away my one “successful” coping mechanism.
February 2008
Eventually, my mom discovered cuts on my forearm. She had noticed a few the year before, but she thought I had stopped. Neither one of us could understand why I was so depressed all the time, especially when things were, on the surface, going so well — I was president of a couple clubs at school and treasurer of my senior class, I was accepted into my top choice college, and I had a tight-knit group of friends, a loving family, and a boyfriend.
She scheduled an appointment with a psychotherapist and I saw him that same month. He talked me through some anxieties about graduating and going off to college, leaving my friends, my breakup with my boyfriend, etc., but the cutting continued.
August 2008
A couple of weeks before I left for college, my therapist asked if I’d ever been abused or assaulted because I was exhibiting a lot of the warning signs and symptoms of PTSD. After I told him about the July 2007 plane ride, he helped me see the incident for what it was.
Identifying the root cause of my worsening depression and self-loathing was a relief at first, because I assumed if I knew what the underlying cause was, I’d be able to address it and move on. That could not have been further from the truth. I started to see myself as a victim and I was now walking around with this huge shameful secret that I was too embarrassed to tell anyone about. I internalized my feelings again and retreated inward.
September 2008
Moving into my dorm in college was the perfect storm – I was living on my own for the first time, I had a roommate who I had to censor myself around, I hadn’t yet found my niche, I wasn’t sure if I liked my major, my classes were intense, I was away from my family and friends and support system, and I was responsible for my own schedule, food, laundry, etc. for the first time. It was a lot to process at once and would be for anyone, but when you layer on a newly-discovered, unaddressed trauma, disaster strikes. I began cutting more than ever before.
January 2009
On the advice of my therapist, my mother took me to a psychiatrist, who diagnosed me with Major Depressive Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder and started me on an antidepressant. I also started sessions with a new (female) therapist. I wanted to discuss my trauma and try to work through it, but didn’t feel comfortable doing so with my previous (male) therapist. Despite the medication and weekly therapy sessions, the self-harm continued.
March 2009
On a Tuesday night in late March, while away at school, I deactivated my social media accounts and texted messages to a couple friends before turning off my phone and downing a handful of my prescription anxiety pills. I’m still unsure if I was suicidal or if I was having a severe panic attack and thought, ‘taking more pills means they will work faster’. It wasn’t the first time (or the last) that I deactivated my social media accounts and turned off my phone, in an attempt to block out the world.
My roommate realized what had happened and alerted the R.A. He was then required to call Campus Safety. Within minutes, a few campus EMTs were putting me on a stretcher and wheeling me to the elevator and down to the ambulance, as many of my floor mates watched from their doorways.
At the hospital, the ER doctors cleared me within a few hours – my blood work was okay and I hadn’t taken enough pills to cause any lasting damage. They then passed me off to the psych department for evaluation. I met with a couple therapists and psychiatrists, who asked me numerous questions about how many pills I took, if I’d done anything similar before, what I washed them down with, etc. before determining I was not a risk to myself or others. They labeled the incident an ‘accidental overdose’ and not a suicide attempt, so I was free to leave.
April 2009
Shortly after, while visiting my parents, I woke up with fresh cuts on my arm and dried blood on my pillow. Somehow, I had cut in my sleep. I don’t know if I was half-awake or sleepwalking, but it was terrifying to wake up to. As a result, my psychiatrist added an anti-psychotic medication to my ever-growing list of pills.
The following weekend, I came home drunk from a party and fell on my thumb/wrist in the dorm hallway. It started swelling and bruising almost immediately. I could still move it, but it hurt a lot. I didn’t want that pain to fade, so a couple of days later, I used the hammer from my tool kit and hammered the area. I didn’t hit it very hard, but it was enough to prolong the hurt and delay the healing. I had rationalized this action in my head. I felt that this was a safer, more effective version of self-harm than cutting. Unfortunately, the swelling was so bad that I had to go to the doctor, who immediately recommended I get a cast.
I was frustrated and had no interest in dealing with a cast. I knew it would complicate everything – showering, getting dressed, taking notes, etc. Looking back, I’m extremely relieved that the doctor opted for the cast. The cast drew unwanted attention, which deterred me from ever using that method of self-harm again. Anytime people saw the cast, they asked what happened and everything inside of me froze. I didn’t want to be judged, or pitied, or yelled at, so I stuck to the original story – I fell on it while drunk. It wasn’t technically a lie, since that did cause the underlying injury.
May-August 2009
Thankfully, I managed to make it through the rest of the school year without drawing too much attention to myself. Once I moved back home for summer, my mother tried everything she could think of to get me to stop cutting. When I mentioned that I didn’t want to be alone in my room at night because I was afraid of waking up with fresh cuts again, she convinced my sister to let me sleep on the futon in her room.
She also instituted a ‘gold star’ system. She would check my forearms for fresh cuts each day and if I didn’t self-harm, I would get a sticker (a gold star) on the calendar. At the end of the summer, if I had enough gold stars, I would get a new camera for our cruise to the Western Caribbean. This incentive/reward system would work for a few days and then I’d start cutting again. Every time I tried to stop, I relapsed. It was extremely frustrating.
Mid-August 2009
By the time the cruise rolled around, though, I was a week or two clean, which was a personal best. The vacation started out great with a couple of days in Florida before we set sail. The first night onboard, though, I was drugged and raped by a stranger I met in the ship’s nightclub (‘The Second Trauma’).
When we got home from the cruise, I was a wreck. I immediately returned to cutting. Why did I get assaulted AGAIN? Why me? I couldn’t get out of my own head. It felt like I was doing something to attract these predators. I needed to take back control of my body and self-harm gave me that opportunity. It went from a coping mechanism to a way of life – a full-blown addiction.
September 2009
Despite my mother’s concerns and hesitations, I returned to school for the fall semester. There was a distinct change in my personality, yet again. I started skipping classes and social functions and spending every day in bed. My friends were worried, my parents were scared, and I felt nothing. I cared more about how much my actions were hurting them than about how they were hurting me. Knowing how upset my mother probably was back home is what kept me up at night. But things didn’t change.
October 2009
Halfway through the semester, I started EMDR sessions at the on-campus counseling center, while simultaneously coming off of my antipsychotic medication. EMDR should never have been suggested to me a mere two months after my trauma. And I shouldn’t have been taken off of any medications without a tapering plan in place.
November 2009
After a few EMDR sessions, something inside of me broke. The result was complete apathy. I didn’t care if I lived or died. I had no set plans to kill myself, but the suicidal thoughts and ideations were becoming more frequent and were clouding my judgement. As someone with little to no impulse control, I was nervous I would do something I couldn’t heal from. I mentioned this to my on-campus therapist and she called my mother to ask what she should do about the situation, as if my mother, who was at work when she took the call, was equipped to deal with this issue. Ultimately, the therapist consulted with the center director and they decided I was a suicide risk.
Once again I found myself in a campus ambulance to the hospital. This time, though, I wasn’t allowed to leave. They admitted me to the Emergency Psych Ward on a three-day hold and suicide watch. They took my phone and my belongings. All I was able to keep were my clothes. My “room” consisted of a shelf, a barred window, and a bolted down bed and desk. There was a nurse assigned to look into my room every fifteen minutes, the bathroom doors didn’t lock, and all meals were served with plastic spoons (even when those meals were chicken). I spent those few days in group and individual therapy sessions and intermittently writing poems or napping.
After the three-day required hold, I was released and I returned to school to finish out the last couple weeks of the semester.
December 2009
At the start of winter semester, I had to meet with the dean of my college and an advocate from the counseling center to justify why I should be allowed to stay in school. They asked how I could be sure that the winter semester would be any different than spring or fall, how I could be sure I wouldn’t have to be taken to the hospital again, how I was going to be able to manage my mental health and classes, etc. Ultimately, whatever answers I gave were enough to convince them that I was healthy enough to stay. They cautiously agreed I could remain enrolled.
January 2010
By the time the new year rolled around, I was barely functioning. I started partying hard on the weekends – drinking excessively, smoking at house parties, etc. Anytime I drank, I cut. One time, one of my sorority sisters followed me back to my apartment after a night of drinking and stood in my doorway begging me not to hurt myself. She then came inside and collected all of my scissors and razors. At the time, it felt like I was being babysat. Or that I couldn’t be trusted. But the truth is, I couldn’t. When I was alone, my thoughts were dark.
January 24, 2010
Later that month, I made a particularly deep cut, far worse than any cut I had done before. It likely required stitches, but I didn’t go to the hospital. I just waited for the bleeding to stop and then went to bed. The wound eventually closed up, but it left a raised scar that is still visible now, almost eleven years later. A dermatologist once recommended a cream I could use to lessen the appearance of the scar, but I had (and still have) zero interest in that. The scar is a symbol of my past and the battle I overcame to get to this point.
The next morning, I called my mother and told her I needed help. I’d been back at school for three weeks and hadn’t gone to a single class. She was extremely supportive. I went to my advisor’s office and filled out the paperwork for a “leave of absence” for the rest of the semester.
March 2010
When I returned to school six weeks later for spring semester, I opted to sleep on my friend’s couch, instead of in my apartment. I felt safer at her place. I felt like there was nowhere to hide or to get enough privacy to cut, which deterred me from hurting myself. Even though I didn’t make the dean’s list that semester, I was proud I managed to make it through the whole ten weeks of classes.
Summer 2010
I remained on campus that summer so I could take a few classes and still graduate on time, despite dropping all of my winter courses and taking ‘incompletes’. I got involved with the campus radio station and tried to keep myself busy.
July 2010
In July, I made the decision to get a tattoo. I had the word ‘love’ tattooed on my foot, as a nod to the organization To Write Love on her Arms, which had provided me with a community and a safe space to talk through my problems with like-minded individuals. That simple act of getting a tattoo helped me heal more than I could have ever anticipated. I felt empowered and in control of my body for the first time in three years. I had “reclaimed” it. It started to feel like mine again.
September 2010
In the fall, I moved into my sorority’s mansion. Living in a house with 15 other girls meant there was constantly someone to talk to or study with or grab food with. The support this provided was crucial to my recovery. The frequency of my self-harm decreased each week I lived there.
Then, on September 24, 2010, I cut for the last time.
September 24, 2020 (Present Day)
Today is my ten-year anniversary of being clean and I couldn’t be prouder. There are still days where I have to actively fight the urge for a “quick release”. Like any other addiction, the risk of relapse is never completely gone, but I have worked really hard to instill other coping mechanisms in myself. Some people think it is a “strange” or “pathetic” thing to say I’m “proud” of, but those people have obviously never had an addiction.
Regardless of how an addiction starts and what your first motivations were, it consumes you. It becomes a habit – a part of you. It weaves itself into your life in ways you don’t even realize and eliminating them all is overwhelming and extremely difficult. It needs to be a conscious decision and, in my experience, only works if you’re surrounded by a strong support system and if you’ve found a new, healthy way of “coping” when things get tough. Trying to stop “cold turkey” or end an addiction by force, before you’re ready, usually only leads to relapses and then shame and frustration surrounding those relapses.
If you are battling through an addiction to self-harm, please know that it gets better. It is a process and recovery takes time. Be patient with yourself and don’t be afraid to reach out to someone you trust for help. I also recommend celebrating your milestones (i.e one day clean, one week, one month, one year, etc.), no matter how small or insignificant they may seem.
Talking Through Trauma 