I think the first time I purposely injured myself was when I was fourteen. Could have been younger, but I’m not sure. I remember feeling so angry, and I would break things “on accident” but I would still get in trouble for it; I was such an angry person; I thank God that part of me is gone. I don’t HAVE to feel that way anymore…
Instead of destroying things, I wondered what it would be like to cut. The first time, I was at the sink washing dishes, and I remember I had just had an argument with my dad, or something, I was upset. I picked up a steak knife, the serrated kind, and washed it. I remembered just staring at it for a moment. I was scared at first; more so because I didn’t want my dad to walk in on me, I wanted to FEEL something other than numb and angry. The first cut was on the inside of my left wrist. I did it lightly, just to prepare myself. Then I pushed the knife to my skin harder. I did short little cuts in the same place with the very tip of the knife.
I finally pushed the tip of the knife as hard as I could against my skin until I felt I couldn’t go farther, and “knicked” myself. At this time, it was rebellious, and I was in control, and it felt amazing. (I’m actually really sad that I did this for a few years) I would eventually start cutting more, and in different places. I really didn’t want to make it obvious that I was cutting. I dismantled an unused razor and kept only the top piece and the blade. I would use this whenever I felt I needed a release.
The only other way I can explain it is that whenever I got into a physical fight with my dad, or he yelled at me until I was sobbing and feeling worthless, and blamed me for something that wasn’t my fault, I would want to feel something other than the everyday pain I was already feeling. I could control this kind of pain, and how much to inflict on myself. I started cutting on the top of my foot with the razor blade. It was easy to hide, and I healed fast for the most part.
I remember one time I was so angry, I cut the top of my foot over thirty times. I counted. There was blood, and I was smiling through angry tears. Some left scars, some didn’t. I wasn’t trying to commit suicide at this point, I just wanted the pain, because then the healing process did something to me also. There was another time where I took a pocket-knife and cut my forearm. It left a nice long scar across my arm. Again, I only wanted the pain. It’s hard to explain, but the pain made me feel real. That I was alive, that I could feel, because everything else, I was becoming used to…
“great, another slap to the face”, “oh, here we go again, I’m gonna get beat and berated until I submit or cry angry tears”.
The shock factor was gone for me. I expected the physical abuse. It only got worse as I got older.
One of the MANY reasons I decided to get tattoos, and surprisingly, at eighteen, my dad allowed me to get a tattoo! It went right on top of my foot where I would cut. This time, I cried at the pain. It wasn’t because it hurt, it was because I felt something different inside, and I don’t really know what it was. It could have been relief honestly, I don’t know. The tattoo is completely unique and designed by me, as well as the Artists’ influence, and I remember why I have it.
To cover the scars I did have, but also a reminder. It’s a rosary, with “faith hope love” around the ankle. The tattoo reminded me of razor blade cuts, except this time, there was something beautiful after the healing process. I endured the pain so something beautiful could come from it…
I eventually stopped cutting and would get more tattoos in its place. (I feel no convictions from the Holy Spirit about my tattoos. They are ALL apart of my story). There is still more to my ‘self-harm’ story, but I’m not ready for that yet. I truly thank God for pulling me through that. As painful as it was… I’m grateful.
I may have rambled a bit, but I’m tired now. There is still more.