SELF-HARM

How It Began and Why It Needs To Stop

By Rayne

My blood flowing represented such a pure peace.

When I look back on my life - what little life I have gotten to experience so far - I see that pain and suffering have ruled the majority of my short time here.

I may have had a difficult life of sorts, and though so many others have undoubtedly had it so much worse, I cannot feel what it is to have their pasts or their experiences. Only my own.

As a child I did not see my situation as tragic, not deserving of my many, many tears. I was a lonley, abandoned girl with only sad, drunken men and selfish, abusive women to give me love. Which they did quite often, showing it in more subtle ways. Food, shelter, some small level of saftey. But to a child raised such as I, these things are arbitrary, the assumed norm.

To a child, companionship is what truly matters. Comfort and encouragement, time teaching and time being taught. Of these essentials I recieved very little, if any, and in their stead was awarded only with what I saw to be utter hatred, loathing, revulsion. It was my fault when the frequent arguments and physical alterations sprang up between family members, and of course I was always an object of extreme embarrasment. I tried so hard - such as was suggested by my only friends Sesame Street and Nickelodeon - to develop and learn to love my own special identity.

However this only led to more "obnoxious behavior" and more hatred, more shame on the part of my family. But early on, you see, I began to develop certain tools. Tools with which I could fight thier constant disapproval. Tools I might use against this new thing inside me which I had not yet learned was "self-hatred". Of course though these instruments of my salvation eventually became the objects of my unhealthy obsession and later my emotional collapse. I believe that if I had not discovered them when I had, chances are I would not be here writing these words for you today.

I cannot remember the first time I used self-inflicted pain as an escape from immediate emotional distress. It seemed to have always been a part of me, in one way or another, even as a very small child.

My mother would run away from us, having taken herself off of some psyciatric drug or treatment - always against the doctor's wishes as well as her family's - and there would be the signs again. Blatent signs of her hatred of me. Signs of her shame and my failure to carry out some vital daughterly duty. During these times I'd find myself in her room, no earthly idea of how I'd gotten there, scared, trembling (obviously in the deepest throes of some kind of panic attack) and always with this somehow pathetic need bubbling up inside of me, desperate for release.

My hands would clench around each other painfully tight. I could never feel the pain, however, not till long after the "attack" had passed. Some times not even then. I would goudge my nails into the skin on the back of my hands, relishing the sight of my own blood and the flow of pure peace such an act never failed to bring. At other times I would simply bash my head with my fist repeatedly until dizziness over came me. In some way this behavior - this odd sort of self punishment simply for being me - was my catharsis, my own special brand of comfort.

Later I found my favorite pocket knife and began to ritually cut to shreds the delicate skin of my arms. I think this was a visual statement to my abusers, my loved one, the family I sought after who always seemed to shy away from me as though I were not a thing deserving of care or even the slightest validation. It was a wordless announcement that proclaimed "Look! See? I've punished mySELF for being so reprehensible. Now will you love me, grant me acknowledgement, now that I have penalized myself so thouroughly?" Alas, it never fullfilled its purpose. It only deemed me more contemptable. It was then they beagn labeling me "the freak".

Needless to say this hurtful little nickname has stuck with me even till this day, still dredging up painful, shameful memories of a time I believed it to be true. I was 7 the first time I actually cut myself with a knife, and it was 11 years of pure internal hell before I found the courage to stop.

I'm 18 now, and pregnant. I've had to cease so many addictive behaviors that used to be my only escape in order to teach myself a little thing called "self-respect" but also to save my child from having the kind of life I had.

I began to heal myself for the benefit of my baby, but now I realize all the soul deep peace recovery has granted me. Finally I can admit to myself it wasnt my fault. and because of that, my child now has the chance I never had at a normal life. If I could step out of my role as the outcast and learn to forgive myself, then so can you.

I am learning that peace comes from deep within the soul and from knowing myself and caring enough to continue to work at healing myself, and not from cutting myself and watching myself bleed.

as of October 4, 2003