“Self-injury (SI) or self-harm (SH) is deliberate injury inflicted by a person upon his or her own body without suicidal intent. These acts may be aimed at relieving otherwise unbearable emotions, sensations of unreality and numbness.” 1.
This is my story of self injury.
When I was 11 I didn’t know what self harm was. I didn’t know why I picked up that piece of glass, and why it felt good to hurt myself with it. Little could I for see that this would be the beginning of a 9 year battle with self harm and depression.
The first time I hurt myself I didn’t know what self harm was, or why I had such a destructive urge. At the time I felt so angry, and I had an innate feeling that if I could just watch myself bleed, I would be alright. I used glass the first time, on the knuckle of my thumb. It didn’t really hurt, but the blood was so satisfying. It was a month before I felt the need again.
The reasons people begin self harming are many and varied. The consensus is that self harm is a coping mechanism, for people who have unhealthy ways of dealing with their emotions and situations. “…associated with mental illness, a history of trauma and abuse, eating disorders, or mental traits such as low self-esteem or perfectionism.” 2
Emotional and psychological abuse are also very common precursors to self injurious behavior.
My own abuse at the hands of my mother was to lay the ground work for my later self harm and depression.
“Emotionally invalidating environments where parents punish children for expressing sadness or hurt can attribute to a lack of trust in oneself and difficulty experiencing intense emotions.” 3
My abuse as a child was psychological, ranging from illogical behavior such as yelling and shouting for no reason, or threats of physical violence if I was not to comply, strict control – such as not being able to leave the house outside of school etc. This is a common behavior by parents who suffer untreated mental illness, and are not willing to ask for help. Instead they relate their own pain onto their children, often teaching their offspring to repeat their behavior.
I soon discovered that I felt the need to hurt myself more and more often, and with increasing severity. No longer was a small scratch sufficient. I quite often cut myself to the point of needing stitches, (though I never got them). And often it was three or more times a day. My arms were proving difficult to hide, and wearing long sleeves through summer was challenging. I moved to my thighs, where the most damaging injuries would reside.
As time went on I became more and more obsessed with my harming. Seeing blood in every day life, and romanticizing the potentially damaging uses of everyday items. I could no longer sew, for the needle. Couldn’t cook, for the knife and certainly couldn’t take Panadol or other daily medications for the urge I had to simply swallow them all.
As time went on my obsession with suicide grew, and I started taking small overdoses daily. 5-10 Panadol were sufficient to make me feel ill. Completely unaware of the severe effects that paracetamol could have on the body. Sure that something people take as readily as painkillers couldn’t be damaging except in humongous doses. I imagined that thousands of the little white pills would be required to cause any real adverse effects.
“Research shows that the common threshold for liver damage to occur from a single paracetamol overdose is 15 gms (30 tablets) although standard hospital guidelines allow an extra safety margin and assume liver damage could occur at a single overdose of 24 standard tablets…” 4
These measurements never entered my head. I thought of 10 tablets as safe and would sometimes take 20 a day, though in separate doses.
After a month or so of taking regular small overdoses, my obsession with suicide had increased to the point where I was carrying several hundred paracetamol with me daily in-case I needed to make myself sick. I didn’t intend to kill myself via overdose, taking pills was a way for me to self harm, with out the tell tale scars and injuries.
In October 2005 I went into the bathrooms at college to take some pills, but I found I couldn’t stop. I just kept throwing them back; it didn’t occur to me that what I was doing was suicide. I could only think that I wanted to stop hurting and this seemed the only way to do it. I didn’t truly want to kill myself. I just didn’t want to live the way I was anymore. I took about 60 pills in the bathroom, and then calmly returned to my last class of the day.
Within 30 minutes or so of taking the pills I was feeling very nauseas, couldn’t concentrate, and couldn’t think. I excused myself from class and went home sick. Almost home on the bus I couldn’t stop myself from gagging every time we went around a bend and I felt more ill then I ever have in my life.
I got off the bus at our local shops and went to the bathrooms, locking myself in a cubicle I took some more pills, about a further 30, and then took a blade to my arm. Carefully taking the time to bandage myself up, though I was dizzy and could barely stand I calmly called my mother, saying I felt too ill on the bus, and could she pick me up.
I reassured my mother I was alright, just nauseas, and she left to go to a dog training course. After she had gone I crawled into bed. The gravity of my situation hit me, as I realized that perhaps Panadol wasn’t as harmless as I thought. Almost 10 hours after taking the first lot of pills, I called the only trusted friend I had, who lived on the other side of the country. She could instantly tell something wasn’t right, and I finally buckled and told her what I had done. It took her over an hour to convince me to tell my mother. I was more willing to die then I was to ask my mother for help.
Almost 12 hours after it started, I told my mother what I had done, and asked her to take me to hospital. She grudgingly agreed, upset that she would miss her favorite TV show.
I was terrified, not having been in hospital before. My mothers overbearing presence was incredibly threatening and she stood right behind me as I had to tell the triage nurse what I had done. The drugs had already dissolved, and as such the easiest methods, activated charcoal and stomach pump, would be completely useless. They promptly put me on a drip, and found me a bed. I was not admitted to the Psychiatric ward, as they believed I had a “safe family environment” to go home too. A psychologist from child and adolescent mental health saw me, and I began treatment with her not long after.
After that my life changed. I was out of hospital only 3 months before I decided to move out of home. I left my mother, who didn’t say a word to me, and moved in with some friends where I stayed for a while. A lot of couch hopping ensued until I met my current partner, Robert. Since meeting Rob my self harm has almost completely ceased, I have regular counseling with a psychologist who works for mental health services here. Together with her and Rob I am now living a life I didn’t dream when I took those pills. Depression is still an issue in my life. And I have chosen not to work for the past 6 months, because I felt I needed a breather, and time for my life to settle down, take stock, and give myself time to relax after all that I had been through.
When I look at my scars nine years later I don’t feel regret. I am happy. I am happy that I hurt myself instead of dying – because I would not have the friends and the love in my life I have now. I am happy that I survived. I am happy that I am here today to tell my story.
All of you struggling with self harm, I hope you continue the fight, and hopefully one day you will be able to look back, and be grateful that you had self harm as a tool to help you through the tough times, so you could live to see the good times.
Aimee Cameron
Sources:
November 18th, 2007 at 12:51 pm
Alot of self-diagnosis going on here… probably should stay with the professional. Blame can be tricky.
November 18th, 2007 at 12:59 pm
I didnt diagnose myself, my psychologist did. when i was reffered to cams, im sorry i didnt make that clear.