Strip me naked. Each new person pulling off another piece of clothing until I’m left completely bare. Unclothed. Unprotected. So tired of all these doctors, therapists poking at me. Asking their questions and expecting textbook answers. Well, I don’t have them. There are no words to describe how I feel, which makes me frustrated. Why can’t anyone seem to accept that I have emotions and desires that cannot be pinned to specific events? Why must all my problems be rooted in a simple cause? I know it doesn’t have to be, and rarely is in others, but it just seems like most other self-injurers, and the like, have clear-cut causes. They were abused. They were neglected. They lost family members to tragic events. What’s my excuse? That I was teased a little as a kid? That I had an “abusive” friendship with a girl one year older than me during elementary school? That when I really wanted a hug, there was no friend there to give me one? No. Pathetic justifications scrounged up from the pit of my memory. I cannot force the answers, but when they insist so adamantly that I give one, I cannot lie either. I try to have them suggest possible answers to see what they want me to say and then…and then I can tell them what they want to know. But I can’t help but feel, as I leave their office, that I have given them someone else’s story. That I emphasized the wrong bits of information and they have a totally wrong picture of me. It’s hardest with those you only speak with once. You get a first impression, and that’s all. And that stresses me out, because that wrong image I portray could mean some really wrong treatments. If I make it sound like all my problems are rooted in an uncontrollable depression, I’ll end up on anti-depressants. If I make it sound like I hear voices in my head, they’ll label me a schizo and give me meds for that. I know that it’s some form of anxiety. I know that I have a Type A personality and can become so obsessive over things. But I also know that I used to be much worse.
I used to be paranoid about germs. I used to think that people were following me. I used to be so many weird things, that I’m not really anymore. But I still have my quirks. Some I choose not to share, others I will gladly tell. I still feel like everyone is staring at me when I walk across a room or anywhere else. I still feel like people judge me and make their first impressions by my face. I still feel like I must prove myself to my teachers by participating more than average. Some of these things I’m okay with, others I am not. Most of all, as I go through this “recovery,” I just want to be accepted and treated as I am, not as I appear to be.
There are definitely things wrong with me, which I need to stop, but I cannot fully accept some of the alternatives readily. I need time to absorb things, turn them over in my mind and let it settle. I have spent so much of my life, so much of my time creating my own logic, because I have been searching for answers nobody has, or I have been too scared to ask the questions. My logic is so severely skewed that I cannot comprehend how some people don’t understand the way I think. It has no longer become theories in my mind, but realities…truths. And anything else seems wrong. Yet, inside all this believing in my own truths, I can see that they are wrong. I can tell myself over and over that cutting is bad, unhealthy, stupid. But I cannot truly believe it until I convince myself completely. No clue how I’m going to convince myself, but I have to if I’m ever going to quit.
And to think about my reasons…why I ever started…all I can say is that a lot of stuff was going on in my head. And out of the turbulent storm came this small rock. This rock hit the inside of my skull and as I picked it up I saw that it said “cut” on it. And, assuming I wasn’t becoming an axe murderer and was being told to cut someone else, I tried it. It worked once, so I continued. The logic manifested itself and nestled quick and deep. The all-in-one solution for any uncomfortable emotional situation. You get embarrassed, you cut. You get angry, you cut. You get too sad, too happy, too tired, too hyper…cutting helps it all. You become centered and whole. Your body is itself, there, and nothing more or less. You are real, you bleed, you feel and, most of all, you can say what you feel. You feel the skin ripping, blood dripping, and the high or hush. No need to justify to yourself why you did it, because it feels good. That’s all that matters.
That is, until an outside force steps in. A parent, a friend, anyone who cares and wants you to stop. They question your intentions, then your reasons, and try to help or get you help. It’s hard. Because you rely on something for such a length of time and all of a sudden people are asking you to give it up. Like a child giving up their blankie, binkie, or teddy…it’s not something that can just be done. It takes time, and replacements need to be made to fill in the habitual motions and/or feelings that you got from cutting (or any other addictive behavior.) And that isn’t happening for me. I’m being taken to people and they ask me my life story, then they tell me to come back for something else. I have yet to hear someone say, “Okay, you can cut until you’re ready to stop, but you need to be committed to eventually stopping.” If somebody told me that, I would say, “That’s fine.”
The more I try not to do something, the more I tend to do it. Only once I become totally apathetic to the results of that undesired action will I be able to quit doing it. I must also have the desire to stop, because merely not caring will not make me stop. But to say it’s been 2 whole weeks makes me feel good. 14 whopping days of emotions I’ve faced. And yet, no real accomplishment has been made. Sure, you can say it was hard to do that, and it’s worthy of praise, but I need to see improvement. I need to see advancement towards one direction or the other. I need to find a new way to deal with stuff, or some way to make it clearer to me as to what’s going on, as it’s going on.
And last, I need to know what I’m going through is serious. I know that to me this is more serious than anything I’ve ever been through, but the way others treat me, it seems as though this is all nothing. I know it’s not true, but I need it to be proven to me. Going to a hospital expecting to be admitted then sent home w/o any care or anything makes me feel stupid. I hated that feeling. Even just spending the night would have been enough. Being able to say I was hospitalized would make me feel like this is more real. Maybe even make me want to stop. I don’t know. But it’s too late to know now.
Submission Name: "Essay" 3
