The incident

I’m well aware that I’m not the most, uhh, coherrant blogger. I tend to only write when my head is stormy, I apologise!

I thought that while I have a clear head, I would try to describe the last time I cut. Hopefully if you’re a cutter reading then it will mean you feel less alone, and if you are a friend of a cutter it will help you understand. And even if I’m the only person to read this, hopefully it will help me!

Background

 AA hung himself in May. I think that he was probably borderline, because he had all of the sympoms, including gender confusion. He thought he ended it because he couldn’t imagine/didn’t want life after his girlfriend, MP, broke up with him. I think it was just a very low point for him, and he didn’t have the emotional capacity to pick himself up. It wasn’t her fault, he was screwed up before he even met her. It was awful for everyone involved.

Afterwards I felt such strong pain, confusion and rage. “I could have saved him..”, “I should have let him stay over that time..”, “how could he do this to MP..”, “why didn’t he come to me..”. It kind of resulted in these panic/crying/anger attacks. I’d try to shower, and then I’d be crying. I’d make myself listen to the songs from the funeral, because I hoped that crying would stop me from cutting. I desperately didn’t want to cut. I mean, who wants to be friends with the girl who scarred herself after her friend/ex/confidance committed suicide. That’s just a little too fucked up.

A lot of the time, the grief overcame me at the most random of times, collapsing on the stairs and just wailing seemed a favourite. I felt like the neighbours could hear me, because I was just so loud. I would scream with the pain of it all. It felt like the world had just collapsed. I was frightened my friends would all die, suicide or accident. I would ring my friends just to check they were alive. I would ring my exs just to check they were alive. I screamed that I hated him, and then cry because I didn’t mean it. I would hope he would come to me, that he could tell me what happened. Unfortunatley I’m a grumpy old atheist, and I don’t believe he ever will.

http://www.forsuicidesurvivors.com/for-new-survivors.html I think this helps to explain what it’s like to lose someone in this way. One day he was there, the next he was not. And it was his CHOICE. It’s a difficult thing to come to terms with. I still cry almost every day. If I catch myself happy I feel unworthy, and slump into a depression. Most of the time I feel like I am going to throw up, and like there is a dark cloud inside my head, stopping anything from happening.  When I do sleep, I dream of him. I dream of other friends dying. I dream a lot of not being able to care for children thrust into my care, or that someone is trying to kill me.

Anyway. I lost track of where I was in the story.

So I was feeling this intense waves of grief, I definitely couldn’t drink, but I think I may have a problem, because I drank anyway.  Every time I tried to go out to a club, I thought I saw him. It would send me spiralling, and I would have to go home.

The night of the ladder

And we reach the dreaded day – results day. It’s early July, less than 6weeks after his death, and I’m out in a club celebrating results that he’ll never get; continuing with a life he’ll never have. (Still now, just writing this, I feel like he’s lied and he’s fine, laughing his head off at all of us for grieving him).  It’s about midnight, and the bottle of wine, 4 ciders, and 6 vodka redbulls are more than I can take. I think I see him walking towards the smoking area, and I flip. I have to go home, and I get in a taxi with two girls I don’t know. All I can say to them is that I’m upset because my best friend died, AA, and did they know him? Yes, he was on their course, they were shocked to find out what happened.]I took his virginity. I just had to tell someone. They say they could understand why I was so upset.

And then it was my house. I get out, pay, wipe my eyes and go into the empty house. One friend is still out, and the others have gone home or to visit friends. I collapse on the floor in the hallway. I don’t even make it to my room. And I wail. I scream. I don’t understand what has happened and I’m angry that he’s ruined everything. I start kicking the hall/my bedroom wall (I live in the front bottom floor room).  I kick it so hard the plasterboard breaks. I kick right through to the radiator on the otherside. I’m still screaming, I try not to but I’m overcome.

And then the door knocks.

I stop.

Who could it be? Is my flatmate home? Why would he knock?? My god, the neighbours heard. The neighbours want to check I’m ok. I’ve never spoken to anyone who lives near me and now they want to check I’m ok. My brain goes at a million miles an hour. You will not believe who I find on the other side of the door.

The police are walking into my house.  The POLICE have been called. They think there’s been an attack. The neighbours called, they thought there was an attack in your house. Is there anyone else in? No, you can go check if you like. They do. They tell me to call someone, to talk it out. They hope I feel better, and they walk out. Just like that. 

Who can I call? I call my parents. Who’ve been there for me the whole way through. It’s about 1am and they are shocked to get the call, but try to console me. They tell me I should try to stop crying.

As soon as I’m off the phone I’m crying again. This is the moment that my logical mind really gives way to the cutter. I don’t know what/who she is, but when I get in this state anything  is better than other people knowing I’m damaged. So I give way, and I start talking to myself. It’s odd, but I always talk myself through cutting. I remember everything I ever did and what I told myself it was for. Normally I’m punishing myself for something that has happened. Sometimes I’m proving to others that I’m in pain. Other times I am branding myself. An S for slag. Or a F for fucked up.

Sometimes I’m just getting myself to shut the fuck up. This was one of those times:

Find a knife. Find a razor. Stop. Stop. Concentrate on the razor. Here’s one. New one. Bite it open. BITE IT. Yes, it’s open. Yes throw the plastic. Fucking plastic. Trousers off, this will help. SHUT THE FUCK UP. SERIOUSLY. Police. Police. Police. Ok, good. on the bed. Yes there, on the badge.

The “badge” is a branding I did when I was much younger. A set of horisontal parrallel lines on the outer side of my left thigh. I have gone over it so many times, I don’t even know what is from when any more.

good good. now follow the blood. concentrate. follow the drip. cut along the drip. all the way down. down to your ankle. follow the other. yes. see? concentate on this. now you’re quiet. now you don’t have police at your house, do you?

By this point I’ve cut (and I know because I’m counting the scars as I count) 14 horizontal cuts into my thigh, ranging from one to two inches long each. Half of these are down to my fat, although I don’t know this at the time. I don’t even think of this at the time. I’m just concentrating on making the best cuts I can. The blood has run down my leg to my foot in 2 lines about an inch and a half apart. And I follow these lines with my razor. I want to mark the journey I went on during this night. I want people to see. Although I’ve learnt from my counseller that nobody else understands the language of my cutting, it doesn’t matter right now. I don’t recall it until literally typing this down.

make a ladder. make.a.ladder. ladder. ladder to alex. ladder to yourself. alex can’t climb ladders he’s dead. SHUT THE FUCK UP. MAKE A LADDER.

I cut 23 horizontal lines on my outer shin. Joining the 2 “blood run” cuts together in a picture of a ladder. I don’t know why I drew a ladder. It just calmed me down at the time. 3 or 4 of these are down to the layer of fat. It’s dangerous. Not that I know that at the time either.

As I do this endorphines rush into my body, I think it’s your bodies reaction to pain. My body calms down, as does my brain, and the cutting slows. eventually I make my last cut. I know it will be my last cut before I make it. the top of the ladder and I am content. It’s the same feeling you get after you come. Crude, but true. That sigh of relief and the end. I want to sleep now, but I am covered in blood. I’ll stick to the duvet, which hurts a lot when you toss and turn (believe me)!

So I rip up a t-shirt and bandage myself up. I know that I’ve picked a clean t-shirt, and it does the job-ish. I still stick to the bandage, and through that to the duvet. But it hurts less and I can turn as I sleep. I’ll worry about taking the bandage off tomorrow.

During the night, my flatmate returns home after finding frantic texts on his phone from me. He brings me chicken, but he’s a bit shit with emotions, and I’m pretty sure he sees blood. He ignores it. I go back to sleep.

The morning after the night before

Shit.

Fuck. Shit. I did it. I burst into tears. I make myself some tea and try to think about taking off the bandaging. I’m limping with the pain of what I’ve  done. I’m cripled with the shame of what I have done, and begin to take of the bandages, using warm water and cotton pads I try to assess the damage. I can see yellowy fat under the cuts. This is bad. Very bad. I’m still crying, and listening to the saddest music I know. It’s like a ritual. But this time something is different. I’ve really scared myself by the depth of cuts.I’ve had over 100 cuts on my legs in one session before now. But never so many this deep. They are splaying open, and look like they need stitches.

I ring my mum. I explain what happened. I’m scared and shaking.  She trys to calm me down. I rang her because I know that this time I can’t hide it, and that I shouldn’t. I ask her if I should go to the doctors, but she doesn’t know. It hurts too much to walk even to the chemist down the road, let alone the half hour treck to the GP. I ring NHS direct. The nurse is really helpful. She says that it sounds like I’ve done everything I should. If I can’t walk I should probably stay at home and let them heal on there own. Yes the scarring will be bad.

I ring a friend who brings round tcp on his way to football. He can’t stop, but is very upset with what I’ve done. He’s one of a few who knows that I do. I told him because I knew his ex-girlfriend did, and I wanted someone who understood to know. I’m so ashamed when he comes round that I keep my hands covering my face the entire time. I do this whenever I’m crying. Nobody ever sees me cry, they just see my hands in front of my face and hear me sobbing.

It hurt to walk on my leg for around 3 weeks, and I had to wear support bandages until the scabs came off at about that time.

And now…

I’m scarred for life and deadly ashamed of what I do. I cannot wear skirts, or even short leggings, in front of my friends. I carry round a permenant reminder of how I cannot cope with bad situations, and of the situation itself.

I’m not proud of what I do, but it takes over. It really is a last resort for me. The ones from that particular night (about 2 months ago) are just beggining to turn red from the purple they were before. They still itch when I get embarrassed or do something wrong, or feel ashamed.

Please, don’t think that all self-harmers are attention seekers. That is the last thing I wanted to do. I wanted to internalise my problems and deal with them alone, quiet, without damaging anyone else. Something takes over when I cut.. and that scares me.

I hope you found reading this artical, if anything, thought provoking. Please let me know what you felt now that you’ve read to the bottom. I can’t believe that you did!  If anyone does comment, then I might be tempted to write another 2000 word essay, instead of just using this blog just to rant.

~ by chinaface on August 18, 2009.