Self harmers are often mistreated by medical staff and other medical personnel. This is caused by misunderstanding, and unfair judgments, as well as a lack of education. It has long been the fear of self harmers to go to hospital and be mistreated because of the nature of their illness.

It seems that emergency room staff and nurses are the worst, often leaving self harmers until last, and not giving adequate health care when they are admitted. One girl writes “…They attempted to treat me in the corridor with all the bay curtains open!”

This is just one of many stories of the humiliation and lack of professional work ethic that these medical personnel showed. She goes on to say “he read two lines before throwing it down on the table and saying ‘what do you want me to do’” when trying to explain her predicament to a Doctor. And even more disturbing, often they completely disregard their duty of care when suicide is mentioned, “…They kicked me out, even after I told them I was going to the nearest bridge.”

There are countless recollections, which would make even the sanest person afraid to ask for medical help.

Psychiatrists are equally at blame, In a related article Tricia McCarter-Joseph says, “Some are under the impression that it’s always done for attention or that it’s psychotic,” and goes on to write “Some doctors punish instead of treat.” This is a common problem and a serious breach of the code of conduct.

There are countless reports of Self Harmers stitched up without anesthetic, turned away with blood pouring down their arms, or simply ignored for hours until their blood loss is too great for the nurses to ignore.

Yet another woman tells how “…I was put in the corridor and given a bucket to catch the blood, they gave me a bunch of gauze and told me to take care of myself, since I did it to myself.” Would these doctors ever tell an overweight diabetic to “just deal with it?” Never. Would they turn away a ‘pack a day’ smoker with lung cancer? Not a chance. Then why are self harmers treated so appallingly?

Deb Martinson writes, “…In emergency rooms, people with self-inflicted wounds are often told directly and indirectly, that they are not as deserving of care as someone who has an accidental injury. They are treated badly by the same doctors who would not hesitate to do everything possible to preserve the life of an overweight, sedentary heart-attack patient.”

There is so little education for doctors and nurses that they truly don’t know what they are dealing with. Misinterpreting acts of self harm, as attention seeking, failed suicide effects, or frightening; when in fact they are the sign of a person in a lot of pain and desperately in need of the professional help they are denying them.

As overworked and busy as ER doctors and nurses are, they need to be educated in the psychology of self harm, and have impressed upon them, that ALL injuries that need treatment, are to be given the same quality and duty of care, regardless of how the injury was sustained.

They need to understand that self harmers are NOT trying to waste their time, or otherwise stretch the resources of the health system. They need help, as much as anyone else in the emergency room.

We can only hope that this change of attitude happens sooner rather then later. Please, if you are one of the many mistreated self harmers, lodge a complaint to the misconduct office, Medical personnel, DO NOT have the right to turn you away, and just like everyone else, you are entitled to appropriate health care services.

-Aimee Cameron.

*Quotes are from self harmers who wish to remain anonymous

Deb Martinson’s article - http://www.palace.net/~llama/selfinjury/guide.html

Tricia McCarter-Joseph’s article - http://www.calder.net/tmccarter/2005-01-25-self_harming_2.html

It is estimated that 1 out of every 200 girls between the ages of 13 and 19 self harm. It also affects around 11 thousand boys a year. There are many myths and questions people have about self harm; as it is hard for many to understand why a person would deliberately hurt themselves. Here is one girl’s story.

I’ve known Stephanie for a number of years and had no idea that she, like me, was a self injurer at one point in her life. Here’s an introduction to who she is: “I’m a college student, and I plan on majoring in theater arts. My main goal in life is to own my own theater or head a theatrical group, but only after I get my time on the stage. I am devoutly for rescuing animals from shelters, and in fact, have 8 cats and 5 dogs who have all been rescued directly and indirectly. My life is driven by music and the arts, but writing is the one thing I can always do.”

At what age did you start to Self Injure?
14

What was the reason you started?
At first, I just did it. It was like an out of body experience. I knew I was doing it, but I wasn’t doing it intentionally. But, at that age, I was dealing with a lot from my dad and my birth mom, which are still hot spots with me even today. Later on it progressed to a kind of an involuntary reaction. I hated to cry, and it was my way of venting.

What is your ‘chosen’ form; cutting, burning, something else? And why?
I was big into burning, for awhile. Then, later on, it elevated to just about anything I could do that would hurt without people noticing. I would hit things until my knuckles were bruised or bleeding, I would scratch myself until there was a mark left in places no one would see, that kind of stuff.

Are you, or have you, received any treatment (in the form of therapy etc)?
No. At 14 and 15, I went through basically a personality flip, and, I thought maybe I had done it for attention, but some of it seems otherwise, with as bad as it was. I basically stopped doing it slowly but surely. I think the last time I ‘physically’ harmed myself was before I turned 16.

What do you think is the biggest misconception about Self Harm?
I really haven’t read up on it much, which, I probably should have at the time. I think a lot of people assume that someone who cuts them self is ‘emo.’ Well, I don’t particularly like the whole ‘emo’ stereotype, because the only ones who seem to fit it are posers. And, the whole straight edge thing, while it sounds kinda cool to refrain from things like sex, drugs, drinking, whatever, a good chunk of straight edgers make cutting look cool. I mean, I can understand in some cultures, cutting and self marking is acceptable for different reasons, but, now I’m ranting.

What parts of your body did you self harm?
Mostly my hands. Because, while they were in the open, people knew I was a klutz and didn’t really think much about it. My arms and knees also took a lot of abuse.

Describe the ‘out of body’ experience you got from self harm.
It was like, I was doing it, but I was watching myself do it. I couldn’t stop it most of the time if I wanted to. I even thought maybe I was showing signs of being split-personality prone.

Do you feel as if therapy would have helped you?
I think I could use a therapist sometimes, because I do have a lot of issues I tend to repress, but no. At the time no. I was so in denial of what was going on, it would have made me worse.

Do you feel like people self harm for attention? Why?
I think some people do. Maybe people who are neglected, or people who feed off of others pity. But otherwise, I’m not sure. I know why I did, or at least have an idea of why I did it. But as for anyone else, who’s to say, really?

Do you still get the urge to self harm, or has that gone away?
I still self-harm in a way. It depends on how loosely you define self-harm. I do not do anything physically, but when I feel down, I write down all the things I dislike about myself, sometimes terrible things, and throw it away. In a way, it’s like I’m putting myself down intentionally, so I can build myself back up. But it’s still very different from the phases I used to go through.

Self injury used to be considered to be a female phenomenon. But now, self injury is considered to be evenly split between males and females. I personally have known self injury to be more of a woman’s thing to do, simply because I know very few men who have self injured. Little did I know that a male self injurer has been right in front of me. A good friend of mine, who we will call Nox (not his real name; alias chosen to protect his identity) has agreed to an interview.

Here’s an introduction from Nox: “I’m 19 years old and I’ve been a self harmer since I was 6 years old. I’m a third semester freshman in college. I’ve always marched to the beat of a different drummer, following my own ideas even if they didn’t pan out. My world is my own, no one can change me. I enjoy reading and writing, hoping to actually write a book sooner or later. I’m a sensitive and open bi-sexual. I’m always there for my friends…..and usually looking for someone to kiss. I adopted the names Nocturne or Nox as a reference to night. The night hides everything and thats where I wanted my life to be, hidden and forgotten as soon as I was seen.”

He also says this of his self injury: “I suffer from clinical depression. I’m also an ex-self injurer. I harmed myself because life got hard for me and I thought it was the only way to keep my life under control. The blade became my namesake in cutting; carving an X into my left forearm to mark the ’sins’ I felt I committed. I need and got help. I should’ve told my parents, I was just too scared. I’m already different in my family, and I didnt want them to think I was crazy.”

At what age did you start to Self Injure?

“hitting was at about age 6, biting age 10, clawing age 12 and knives at age 17″

What was the reason you started?

“first time was to see if i could really hurt myself, it just became a real way for me to find control over my life”

What is your ‘chosen’ form; cutting, burning, something else? And why?

“Cutting is how I would prefer to do it, it leaves a smaller mark and causes a pain that is bliss to me, and the marks left let me know what I have done.”

Are you, or have you, received any treatment (in the form of therapy etc)?

“I’ve been in therapy and I’ve stayed at Our Lady of Peace (a local mental health facility).”

What do you think is the biggest misconception about Self Harm?

“That no one has the power to start, people always told me that I could never hurt myself, and when I did I felt perfect.”

Describe your early self-injury you mentioned, before age 17. Was this for the same reason as it was after age 17?

“Hitting myself was the only thing I could think of doing, since I didn’t want to harm anyone…and I felt hurt on the outside so I brought the pain to an external level.”

Did you feel as if you were in control of your life, while everything else was spiraling out of control when you cut?

“Yes, cutting causes everything to come into focus, seeing my blood just made me calm down, as crazy as that sounds.”

What areas of your body did you cut?

“My left arm, I can’t do shit with my left arm. I carved little x’s into it.”

When was the last time you self-injured and why?

“Last time was just a few months ago, and it was because I was going through a lot and couldn’t calm myself.”

How long were you in therapy for?

“About six months.”

How long were you hospitalized for?

“3 days.”

Did therapy and hospitalization help you any?

“Yes, therapy allowed me to express myself and discover things about me. Hospitalization allowed me to discuss my problems, and got me on some medication for depression.”

Were you diagnosed with anything?

“Clinical depression.”

Were you put on any medication? If so, what medications were you on, and did they help you?

“Lexapro, and it usually does help me.”

Describe how cutting made you feel ‘perfect’.

“It gave me a sensation that nothing else could. It just gave me a feeling of bliss that made nothing seem to go wrong.”

“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:
1 Reference.com on Self Harm
2 WikiPedia on Self Harm
3 WikiPedia on Self Harm
4 Paracetamol Information Centre

I was hospitalized in the summer of 2003; my parents told everyone I was on vacation. In all reality, I was sent away to discover my beast. Like the Little Beauty, I want to be at home, and don’t want the beast. But in contrast, I always had my beast, while hers was met at a palace, and treated well by him. Her beast was a beast physically; but my beast was a little more complicated. My beast had always been there, in my mind. Sometimes it leaks itself out to onto my body, showing up in strawberry gashes that I kept well hidden.

I was fifteen years old, green with the first experiences of high school. I had completed my freshman year with a 3.8 GPA, and on the outside, things appeared to be fine.

My parents gave me to the beast at birth, through a combination of nature and nurture. The first signs of the beast began at my parent’s separation and pending divorce, as it was always there and just waiting for an opportunity to spring from the shadows. I wasn’t aware of the beast until adolescence, when the innocence of childhood starts to fade and you learn that everything isn’t as it seems. I flourished in my own tears at night, and for a long time, that’s all I needed.

The beast began as my depression and I learned to deal with it in only one way. Drugs were available, drink was available, and boys were available. I didn’t use any of these. The way I dealt with it was with a razor, a knife, a staple, fingernails…anything I could use. The beginning of it all was an ankh on my ankle, designed carelessly with a safety pin. Small ‘x’ designs came to follow the ankh, and seeing the blood was letting the beast out.

“Into these twisted months I plunge without a light to follow
But I swear that I would follow anything,
Just get me out of here.”
“If Winter Ends” by Bright Eyes

The beast was in the blood, it wasn’t just inside anymore. The quote is something that I was feeling, the beast wanted to get out any way it could. And it did. The beast followed my sharp object cues for months, years even. This is where Beauty’s beast overlaps with mine in the story. My beast is now not just inside and ugly; it’s worn on the outside of my body as well. Beauty’s beast was hideous, and judging from appearances, she wanted away from him. I didn’t want to be near my beast either; and I longed for normalcy and a savior.

“Well, I made amends
In the general sense
But the devil’s in the details
And I know the cost
And I wanna stop
But I can’t do it
I just can’t do it” —“Devil in the Details” by Bright Eyes.

I tried to quit. I tried to feel better. It just didn’t work out; and I couldn’t control my erratic emotions. It’s just not that easy. I was cutting my wrists, my hips, my ribs, my ankles; anywhere that could be concealed. Just as Beauty would have been ashamed to say that a beast was in love with her, I was ashamed to admit I scarred myself.

I was going down my own self destructive path, screaming for attention but no one heard me, not even a little, not even at all. Until the hospital.

I guess you could say that the hospital was my palace. I went in, resenting who I was and what I had become. I hated myself. There was no part of me that was perfect or safe from this hate.
I never got away from my beast for even a week, as Beauty does in the story. But my beast did transform.

Hours in the hospital turned into days as I lived with my beast inside of me. Since it was a psychiatric ward made with suicide watch in mind, there was no possible way I could hurt myself. I had to learn a new way to let the beast out, to turn it into the prince that Beauty’s beast became.

In the hospital, I saw myself in the other girls who were there with me. In a way, I guess they were like the invisible servants in the story, although in reality, we were all servants to one another. We supported each other, despite our separate illnesses.

I was always an artist. I drew, I wrote, I painted, I sculpted, and I photographed. Ever since I was young, I did these things. I was never into sports, and I was never pushed into them. Art was what I did, and I never knew it would help me so much in the long run.

One day, we went to an art therapy session. The therapist told us to do whatever we want, and that’s how I discovered that my beast could be a prince. I began painting on a wide canvas of pure white paper, letting my hand lead my mind. A red, bleeding heart appeared on the paper right before my eyes. Then I damaged the heart. The silver paint was soon a sword, and the black paint was stitches. Piercings littered the heart’s edges, and soon it was just as monstrously beautiful as my disease itself. I finally had a way to recovery, I felt.

It wasn’t long before I had been given a name for my beast, which had remained nameless until then. Bipolar Disorder, or Manic Depression as it was once known, was my beast’s title. I was eager to learn more of my beast, and that I did. Something inside me knew that I wasn’t the only one suffering with this beast.

And I was right. Even famous people suffered from the beast named Bipolar. Creative types, such as Vincent Van Gogh and Edvard Munch, who were both painters with bipolar disorder. Beautiful types, such as Marilyn Monroe and Vivian Leigh; as well as musicians Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain, and Jim Morrison, were thought to have suffered from bipolar disorder as well. I was glad I wasn’t alone on the rollercoaster of the beast. (Wikipedia.)

The difference between normal moods and bipolar mood swings is clearly stated in the book Bipolar Disorder For Dummies. It says if you suffer from bipolar disorder, you not only experience the normal ups and downs of everyday living, but you also have ups and downs that surpass the health, socially acceptable limits and persist for inordinate amounts of time. (Fink & Kraynak 10)

The painting I had created was a real wake-up call for me; after creating it, I felt relief, and this time, instead of the beast being written in red ribbons of blood on my arms, it was on paper. It was beautiful to see what I could create. It was my first step in embracing the beast.

I came to embrace the beast as being a source of creativity, thus the beast transforming into a prince. I got out the hospital and just painted, drew, wrote, and colored when I felt like hurting myself.

Bipolar disorder isn’t necessarily a negative thing. I learned what Beauty learned: that appearances and first impressions may be deceiving. Beauty never would have guessed that she would end up marrying the beast when he was ugly, although he did treat her well; just as I never could have imagined embracing an actual disease.

Beauty was mostly just a maiden in the sense of archetypes, although to the beast she was also a heroine because she came back to the palace and saved his life. I was also a maiden because I was trapped in my own prison and was helpless, but I learned that I had to save myself. I was my own heroine.

The Beast in the story represents the archetype of the Shadow, which is the part of ourselves we don’t claim, the part we are ashamed of. Beauty was also a heroine because she learned to face her shadow, and he turned out to be a prince in disguise. My shadow was Bipolar Disorder, which I learned to face and embrace. I wouldn’t say it’s something I defeated or ever will; but it is a possibility.

My journey through the disorder hasn’t been easy; but I would say it’s something I have accepted as a part of myself. It makes me feel whole. It also allows for creativity, which is why letting the disease out through art is successful. I’ve slipped and fell along the way, but I don’t let that keep me down.

“I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart: I am, I am, I am.” (Plath, Chapter 20)

In the end, we all have to listen to our hearts, as quote above says. Sylvia Plath had it right when she described depression as being like you were under a bell jar, alone with yourself. My bell jar is my creativity now, and also my prince. The Beauty lived happily ever after, just as the beauty within me will. Beautiful, but fragile.

Works Cited
Bright Eyes. “Devil in the Details.” Digital Ash in a Digital Urn. Saddle Creek, 2005.
—. “If Winter Ends.” Letting off the Happiness. Saddle Creek, 1998
Fink M.D., Candida and Joe Kraynak. Bipolar Disorder for Dummies. Indiana: Wiley Publishing, 2005.
Plath, Sylvia. The Bell Jar. New York: Harper & Row, 1971.
“List of people believed to have been affected by bipolar disorder.” Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia. 6 Dec 2006, 6 Dec 2006.