Cutting and Self-Harm

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

This isn't an easy blog to write... it's full of stuff that nobody wants to talk/hear about: Self-harm.

I attempted suicide more than once in my life but more recently, in October (?) of last year and then March of this year. Tried overdosing. I'm not the only person who does this, who has my disorders.

Yesterday was a bad day for me. I was overwhelmed and buried, flooded and confused.

Yesterday was Gary's birthday. I cried most of the day.

That wasn't the worst, though...knowing he's celebrating his birthday with his new girlfriend and all the old friends I once knew. (I did call and leave him a voice mail, wishing him a tearful happy birthday).

I also went and got my driver's license renewed, and I got fuel for the house - for heat. Now, this might not seem like a big deal, but to me, it was shameful that it was a big deal. Like whoopy-doo...you managed to do something pretty much anyone in the world could do? I was ashamed for feeling I'd accomplished something. "I feel so stupid," I remarked to Bill in a text, but I couldn't elaborate on it. I just felt so stupid. Celebrate getting your license? You idiot...

I was also overwhelmed by increasing evidence of my DID. I'd apparently spoken to Bill on the phone and spoke in the voice of a child...whispering...saying "Shh! he's coming! Here he comes! Shh!"

This really threw me because I didn't remember it but when I put it together with all the other DID stuff that's happened, the mounting evidence that I suffer from this affliction makes me sick. Sick. I don't want to be that fucked up! No no no! But, alas I must admit I dissociate. A lot. In fact, I was with Michelle when I actually remembered that I'd gotten my driver's license yesterday.

There were a few other things but the worst came when I thought about going to court tomorrow. I began to panic, and I mean PANIC. What if they take me to jail? They'll take Trevor away! OH MY GOD!

I was inconsolable. I was making plans. I called Cindy, I called Bill I told Cindy where there's money so she could buy Bill a plane ticket home. "Please, please don't let them take my baby," I cried desperately. The feeling that was flooding me is indescribable. Trevor....Trevor is what keeps me going every day. He has no idea the strength he gives me. I don't lean on him, mind you. I know the harmful effects of that, but I look at him, and I watch him and I know he needs me and it keeps me straight, although there are nights when I can't be a "mom" and - because Trevor is so, so smart and we're so attuned to one another, he knows that it's a bad night for mom. He's autistic - supposedly incapable of feeling emotions - but with me, he gets it.

We've talked about our disorders. For many years I never told him anything but one day, he asked me about the cuts on my arms and I explained to him that it's part of my disorder (anyone with any experience with an autistic child, knows you can't bullshit them and just coming straight out with the truth [to their capacity] is the best way). He asked a few more questions. I don't feel he has a complete grasp on my disorders, but he understands more than any teenager you'll meet.

I don't know what happened but I cut last night... somehow it serves so many purposes. I emailed my therapist, told her I'd cut. I actually said, "I am emailing you to tell you that I cut tonight. The reason I'm emailing you is because I don't want to talk about it."

Incest survivors, particularly, are prone to self-harm and self-injury. It could be in the form of bulimia, hair-pulling, cutting, overdosing, alcohol abuse, or any other kind of self-destructive, self-effacing, self-abusive means.

There's all kinds of literature out there about it but I'm just gonna tell you straight out: It relieves pain. It releases a rage you're afraid to feel. To see blood or vomit helps you know you're alive - you're a living person, not a shell.

In reference to cutting, I've actually read that - in the schools nowadays - it's the new "anorexia" for teenage girls. Many girls cut.

But most cut in hidden places. I have one friend who cuts on her inner thighs. I've known them to cut on their ankles, their upper arms, their stomachs. Anywhere....anywhere, just to bleed.

Me, I've always cut my wrists. I had a short bout with bulimia and I was a hair-puller in my 20's.

There's another reason people do this: It's a scream for help. It's a way of saying, "I have this pain inside me and it's eating me alive but I can't show it to you or tell you about it." And they won't. They won't tell you about it.

Today, in therapy - though I had said I didn't want to talk about it - it was the elephant in the room. I know - because of the many moments of awkward silence, that she was giving me room, just in case I brought it up.

And I did.

There's practically no worse feeling than waking up with a couple gashes in your arms (one of them really needs stitches but you can't go to the emergency room for stitches on your wrist because most doctors don't understand that it's not a suicide attempt) and then knowing you scared the shit out of everyone who matters to you.

You feel like a loser, a failure, a mistake, hopeless, omg what's wrong with me?

Yet, there's also this strange fascination and even a sense of pride... you want everyone to see....but you want nobody to see.

Oh God if I could stand in the middle of the world on a huge podium and shout, LOOK! LOOK AT MY WOUNDS!! and somehow, magically, everyone would understand it's not a manipulative way of getting pity; it's not "for show" (as I've been accused of by my ex); it's not to show off how you've hurt yourself.

If I could show everyone these wounds and these scars, and somehow give a voice to them...let the wounds and scars talk for themselves... oh how I wish people would/could learn.

Gratefully, those closest to me (Cindy, Bill, Hannah, Howie) understand (and understood last night) that calling the police or ambulance is the worst mistake in the world. They understood I was overwhelmed. They know (a couple of them because they, too, experience this insurmountable pain and rage), that it's a temporary release.

I just want to note here, that I would never let Trevor see me cut and he does not know it happened, just in case anyone's wondering. He was safe in bed, asleep.

Self-injury is punishment for the "bad" that we are, because we did things. We performed fellatio on our fathers or cousins or uncles. We "allowed" ourselves to be raped. We created our own misfortunes and we must be punished. It's so, so, so much easier for me to turn my anger on myself, than it is to be angry at the father who beat, humiliated, tormented, molested and abused me (and my brother). Being angry at him is just unheard of.

In therapy today, I finally broke down and cried.

"Why do I do this?"

"What?"

I couldn't respond. She gave me a minute as I held my wounded wrist (covered by a long-sleeved shirt) to my face, wiping my tears, staring out the window.

"Why I cut. Why do I hurt people I love? Why do I cut and then tell everyone? Why do I cut?" I asked.

Very gently, very calmly, she responded, "If all your scars and your wounds could tell me their story, what would they say?"

Oh dear God what a great question.... and one I must mull over. It was frightening to even answer it to her.

Cutters are not losers. They're not idiots or manipulators. They know exactly what they're doing, even if they don't always understand why.

Next time you see a slit wrist, just know it has a story to tell.