As a group we decided to use some type of real life
experience in our project. I wasn't sure how to do this since my personal
experiences don't fit in under self-injury. So I did what any normal young
adult would do....I turned to Facebook. I ask my friends that if they had a
story or experience of personal self-injury and if they'd like to share it,
they could email me their story. I was overwhelmed with the feedback that I
got. I worked with two different therapists in Ephraim, Utah at Snow College's
Counseling and Wellness Center for 3 years. Most things don't surprise me
anymore. But I was touched and deeply effected by each of my friends personal
stories. These stories vary in many ways, some still struggle with emotional
scars and physical scars and some have risen from the ashes to find hope, love,
and a bright future. My friends and I hope that these stories will find
someone, even just one, that could benefit from someones past and their
experience. Self-injury is a difficult path filled with sadness, guilt, and
pain. We pray that these stories will help someone find happiness and find
someone who can help them overcome their pain. Each story is anonymous due to the
personal nature of their stories. The only things that have been changed in
these stories are names and grammatical errors. These stories are REAL and come
from REAL people. Please be respectful to their struggles. -Kaela Judd
"My
dad committed suicide when I was 15. It was difficult of course. I was the
oldest child at home, so I felt I needed to be strong for my mom and younger
sister. My younger sister wore black and was cutting at the time. I numbed my
feelings to deal with school and home life. So, in an effort to feel something,
anything at all, I use to run my finger along a brick wall until the edge of it
bled. It's really weird now that I look back on it. I really just needed time
to process it, but with my sister acting out socially, I didn't want to attract
more attention. It didn't happen too long though. I think it only went on for a
year, before I decided I would start dealing with my emotions without my
family's help. Then I started actively helping others who were harming
themselves. It really amazed me how popular it is and yet no one talks
about." -anonymous
"Back when I was I
believe 6 to 8 my brother’s friend was 11 when it all started. At first it
started as a little game of doctor and then turned into touching all over and
more of a female doctor kinda game. Towards the end is when it turned into
intercourse and oral on one another. I was told to not tell anyone, or he would
take my stuff from me, then it turned into bigger threats, like taking lives of
family and friends. So my first self-harm started as overeating to get fat. I
knew enough at that point, that if you were heavier you were known as being
ugly and no one would really like you. So I pushed out to be fat, not realizing
the effects that would happen in the future. I just knew at that point, it hurt
me mentally, emotionally and physically, not knowing this is what “sex” really
was. The only thing that stopped it was because we moved to another town, but
still held over my head was the fact we were still close and I didn’t want to
lose any of my friends that I had left at that point or my family.
As fifth grade came
around I was constantly picked on for my size, my parents were having issues of
their own and learning didn’t come easy for me. I started to pull out my hair;
eyelashes and eyebrows, letting my parents assume it was stressed related
alopecia. By sixth grade my mom had us pack up and leave while my dad went on a
business trip. We moved up to Layton in to a trailer home with my aunt Jill who
had just split with her husband as well. It was a three bedroom, two baths with
two adult women, two teenage boys, four little girls under age of 10 and me who
was almost 12. I wasn’t used to living in a large city and going to an
Elementary school twice the size of the ones I went to before, but I was also
disappointed because I was going to start middle school back in my hometown,
but sixth grade was still in Elementary up north. After school started, I
started to make some friends, but got told I had to spend a few hours in special
Ed department a week to help me with my learning disability. I was happy
because my parents were trying to work things out and I had some hope of
leaving, going back to my house with my own room and starting middle school,
thinking everyone would be more mature at that point. Boy was I wrong! My
parents got back together, kids at school were even ruder about my size and my
brothers were starting to tease me as well. Names were being made by that point
other than fatty. Wide load, free Willy, big Bertha, jello, cottage cheese, and
the list goes on.
Every time I would hear
someone call me that, make gestures, draw pictures or anything I flick myself
with a rubber band, leaving me with welts. People started to notice, so to try
to be cool and get people to like me, I told them I didn’t have feeling in the
part of my hand and wrist. So I would let others take a rubber band and flick
me. I then started a countdown to when I was going to kill myself, February
14th 2003. I wrote it down in a notebook and then started to write letters to
my parents on why I felt I should be dead. I left my notebook out without
realizing it and my brother ran a crossed it and told my parents. Then the next
day I was called down to the counselor’s office where both my parents were sitting.
By then I made a run of it and never realized how fast my dad could run for
being such a big guy. I was taken into the psych ward in Provo hospital, asked
many questions and just kept quiet, but I did answer one question at that
point. Why Valentine's day?
Well it never really
hit me that, that was the day. I just knew I gave myself two weeks and that it
landed on Valentine’s Day. While there I sat in my room, got checked up on
multiple times a day and didn’t want anything to do with anyone else that was
there. I had no more rubber bands, so I started to use my fingernails. I
noticed if you bite your nail it would be sharp enough to cut yourself. My
roommate told me on and I ended up getting my nails cut and supervision became
like 24-hour surveillance. I finally decided to go along with the game so I
could get out of there and finish up what I had planned.
After I got out I
played it cool for a couple of weeks, but managed to take a box cutter out of
the garage so I could cut myself whenever things were getting to get stressful
and I wanted to ease my pain. My mom noticed blood on my clothes and then asked
to see my arms, they were clean, but my thighs and stomach was where I was cutting.
She asked to see my legs, but never knew about my stomach. I was taken back to
the hospital where I stayed there for a month and half until a place opened in
the State Hospital and I stayed there for seven months. So all together I was
living in a psych center for nine months. I learned how to help temptations,
how to be healthy, and self-confidence, how there are other things to do and
try in the world and most of all how to avoid negative things from bullies.
I did start to get back
into cutting in eighth grade, but I didn’t let that last long. I ended up
acting sick and giving up and talking my mom into letting me leave public
school and try home schooling. That never went anywhere like I knew would
happen, so my dad started looking into other schools around Utah County where
he came a crossed American Leadership Academy. I wasn’t for it at all, it was a
charter school, I had to wear dress code and I didn’t want to be around anyone
where I had the chance to get bullied. Luckily I never really got bullied, I
met my best friend as of today and ended up kinda liking the school. But in the
end on what gave me a new view on life was that year in school; I got hit by a
minivan. That’s when reality came into place and I decided I was going to do my
best while in school, join clubs, do stuff I never imagined and to live up to
one goal. “Do all I can, so I don’t regret missing out on anything when I am
older.” I have managed to keep that goal the last six years and I have done so
many things that I never thought was possible." -anonymous
Megan Schreiber gives her experience on how she turned to God to help her overcome her self-harm. This video is from Youtube's rockfordres
http://www.youtube.com/user/rockfordres?feature=watch
"I started cutting
when I was 14 years old. I had no idea what I was doing, so it started out as
little scratches that could be mistaken for cat scratches. It slowly progressed
into deeper cuts (yet not deep enough to bleed a ton, just to the point where
it would scar). Whenever I was in a bad place, did something wrong, or got
yelled at, I would cut. I would cut when I would upset someone, when I got
blamed for something’s, etc. I felt like the world was after me and the only
way to get any sort of attention was to have a new cut on my arm. People
noticed but never said anything for a long time. I got better when I joined
Snow College's BAAD club, it helped me see the good in everything and helped me
stop. I then got into a very abusive relationship and my life went to crap
again, causing this addiction to rear its ugly head. I cut at least once a
week, if I didn't cut I ended up burning myself or something else that would
ease the pain a little. Cutting was an escape from the emotional pain that I
was feeling, it made me forget about the emotional side and turned it into
physical pain that didn't last near as long. I finally got out and divorced my
abusive husband and finally got back to a good place. The only reason I stopped
cutting is because I heard my 12-year-old sister was getting into it. I know
she learned it from me and I don't want a child that young to get into such a
destructive habit. To this day I still struggle with the urge to cut, but now
that I have finally made up my mind to stop I am easily able to put down the
blade and walk away. There is way too much to live for, but one cut too deep
can end that. I now have over 30 scars on my body to remind me of the bad
times, but with a new mindset and a clear sight of the good to come, I am a new
person." -anonymous
"So when I was 15
I cutting my finger off, it was able to be put back on. But it still hurts even
today! It got some nerves. But something to take that pain away! Or to just
make me feel better because I don't have a lot of feeling it, burning my hand
helps me to feel better from hurting my finger such a long time ago."
-anonymous
Determined-
The Good and The Bad
A
beach ball with hands and feet, spandex pants stretched to the max- that’s who
I was, and it was happening again. “Z*****, Z*******,” my tormentor called as I
walked down the school hallway, trying to keep my head down as I clung even
tighter to the straps of my backpack. I had learned through harsh experience
that this was not a harmless term of endearment, but rather a personalized code
name for ‘fat and ugly.’ But I had recently added a new word to my vocabulary-
Determined. It meant ‘to firmly decide.’ And with the new word came a new
resolution: if my tormentor was determined to tear me down, I would be just as
determined to not let him tear me down. Since I couldn’t change my face, I
became determined to lose weight. At night I would drink so much water I’d be sick.
I would dump the spiciest of spices on my food in an attempt to literally burn
off the fat, but it never worked. I wanted to be skinny so desperately that I
wrote my new word—“determined”—on my mirror and looked at it every day. I
started making myself sick in the morning, exercising until I was so exhausted
I couldn’t move. I skipped lunches at school, but I was careful to always eat
enough in front of my parents. Eventually I started to lose the weight, and
people started to notice. I liked that they noticed. My weight loss success and
the resulting attention ignited a further determination to lose even more
weight, but I was getting increasingly more depressed. One day I was
sitting in my room crying when I looked up at the mirror with my word written
on it. I stared, unblinking, and concentrated on each letter:
D-E-T-E-R-M-I-N-E-D. ‘What does that word mean to me?’ As I steadied my uneasy
breaths and focused, I concluded that ‘determined’ meant to take the first step
to cause something to go your way. It meant you wanted something so bad you’d
do anything to get it. I realized then that this tear-stained, miserable,
lonely girl in the reflection was not what I really wanted. I had lost a few
pounds, yes, but things clearly were not going my way. The weight—fitting in,
shedding a few pounds just to shed some heartless tormenting—wasn’t everything.
What I really wanted was to be genuinely happy, and that’s the direction I
should be stepping. So I changed some things.I became determined to be healthy.
I started to eat regularly and gained a little weight back. People noticed. A
few were quick to point it out, but I was determined to let it in one ear and
out the other. It worked. I didn’t let my determined demeanor fade like a New
Year’s resolution. Some people took that word—determined—lightly. They didn’t
let the word drive them like it drove me. I soaked in every good thing the word
would give me. I gave it power. I determined to be happy, determined not to let
others influence my self-esteem, determined to be healthier, determined to be
in control of my thoughts. Being determined—truly determined—changed my
life. It changed the way I look at myself and I how interact with others. If it
wasn’t for the word ‘determined,’ I don’t know where I’d be, and I don’t want
to know. I still have days when I may judge myself too harshly or let those
degrading voices back into my head. But then I see the word ‘determined’—simple
to some, but very powerful to me—and I find I can conquer all the negative
thoughts that come my way and truly be confident and happy.
Sorry I don't have an amazing story for this one but basically what happened is
about 7th grade i started dating boys (obviously to young) and I also didn't
have the best friends. I became extremely depressed and sad due to break ups,
self-image, and mean friends and I started to self harm (cutting my wrists and
arms sometimes my legs). I thought it was a good way to cope with the stress,
anxiety and depression that I was feeling because when I had physical pain I
didn't have to think about the emotional pain and I thought the physical pain
was easier to deal with than the emotional pain. It took a little over a year,
by myself (i have never told anyone) to stop the cutting but sometimes there
are still days when I judge myself too harshly and I want to go back to how I
use to take care of my problems but then I remember that I wasn't any
happier...I wrote a letter of encouragement to myself and every time I have
doubts or want to hurt myself again I read the letter sometimes it helps
sometimes I have to pray about it and sometimes I just need to cry for a while.
For others that have this problem I would suggest to try a variety of things
and see what works for them. It's like recovering from drugs it only gets better
with time you can't expect to wake up one day and be totally fixed. The reason
iI wanted to change and stop self harm was because one day I had a young
woman's lesson on how your body is a temple it really spoke to me and I felt
the spirit so strong, probably the strongest I have ever felt and I realize how
ugly the scares were and how I wanted a beautiful temple, God worked hard to
make me this beautiful body and all I was doing was destroying it, I wanted to
make my temple beautiful in every way, something He and I could be proud of.
"My eyes glazed as the breaths became shallow; I looked down at the ribbons of red and was startled to see beads of blood beginning to trickle down. I raced to my dresser and grabbed out an old sock, I had to stop the bleeding, what if someone found out? I had never meant to bleed. The scissors had gone much deeper than the safety pins had. I tried to blot the drops that had begun to dry and the skin burned hot and irritated as I pulled the cloth away. “Jen?” my sister called, knocking on the door. “What do you want?” I replied my voice angry. “I’m getting ready for work and I need to change my clothes.” “Fine, just a minute.” Quickly I pulled up my pants to cover my bleeding upper thigh, shoved the sock under my bed, and wiped the smeared make-up from my eyes. Jerking the door open, I stormed out of our bedroom past my sister Sarah. Hoping that she wouldn’t see I had been crying I flew up the stairs to escape into the backyard. How does sadness turn into anger? In the beginning it was just sadness, tears that my mother was able to vanish with a hug and some kind words. A child would say something hurtful and I would come home in tears, my parents were angry at what was happening but they followed the advice from school administrators that “these things just happen and she’ll get over it.” The words “ugly” and “stupid” rang through my head until I started to echo them to myself. Have you ever noticed how an animal that has been beaten is so mean? After being in pain for so long I began to lash out at people who tried to soothe me. I would retreat within myself and feel even worse because I pushed the people away that loved me the most. Cutting began on accident. Some boy hurt my feelings because he didn’t like me and I felt worthless. I sat in my room on the floor just staring but seeing nothing all I could do was breathe in and out trying to control the hysterical sobs that were about to come out. I knew I was about to have a panic attack and I felt like I had somehow been tipped out of reality, I felt a sickening numbness and without thinking about it began to clutch my arm with my fingernails. The pain didn’t stop the panic attack from coming but I became interested in the pain. I noticed a safety pin on the floor and began to scrape it across the skin on my arm. It really hurt but I felt somewhat empowered. Once blood began to appear I was frantic, “What if someone noticed?” It was such a teeny tiny little scratch there was no way that anybody would notice but for some reason the next day at school a friend asked me how I scratched my arm. I was in eighth grade and I remember feeling sick at the question but I answered that my cat had scratched me and was horrified when she replied dismissively, “Oh it doesn’t really look like a cat scratch though.” I didn’t harm myself in that way again for some time but as I grew up I continued to beat myself up by telling myself negative things. Even a simple comment would make my depression flare up. I just didn’t know how to deal with scary things or painful things and I was sick of telling people about being sad because I hated the condescending way that people treated me I hated them trying to be understanding, I abhorred their empathy and it made me feel weak. I didn’t want to be weak and I didn’t want people to think that because I was always sad that I was weak. I didn’t want to hear people say, “You’re not stupid, you’re not ugly, you’re a smart girl, you’re a kind girl, god loves you, god thinks your worth something, and don’t compare yourself to your sister because you both have good qualities.” Those comments felt so shallow and so fake and I knew that people said them as a robotic response. To this day those comments arise anger in me as if they are a slap in the face. As I got older I had to deal with things in life that hurt more and I thought I was going to break. I always felt on the border of hysterical crying and would often hide in my room to deal with it. Once in my room I would turn on depressing music and let the depression engulf me, feeling like nobody could understand how much I was hurting and wanting to prove it somehow. The pain would level out and I would feel the kind of tingling feeling in my heart almost like when your foot has been asleep and is starting to wake up. I would forget myself and in time I turned to scissors rather than safety pins. I was in my first year of college and my roommates would talk badly about me, saying that I was always trying to get all the attention from boys and was an embarrassment with the way I shamelessly flirted. Had they known how little I thought of myself they would have realized that I never knew I was flirting, I never thought boys perceived me in that way. I never even thought in a million years that boys liked me, but I desperately wanted them to because I had always wanted to heal that pain of feeling like I was worthless and ugly and I thought a boy could do it. My cutting came to a head the first year of college until about the time I met my husband. I cut myself over and over again. I preferred to cut my stomach because the cutting hurt worse there without having to cut very deeply, I would scrape the scissors over my skin over and over and gasp out in pain, it was like someone else was holding the scissors and I was a servant taking a beating. Tears would stream down my face and I would hold my breath but I didn’t stop cutting until I began to sob and then I would feel a wonderful feeling of release as I began to sob. I feel like it is a blessing from God that my cutting never left lasting scars, they faded away over the course of a few years so I don’t have any visuals to remind me of my worst days. I nearly scraped off the whole surface of my stomach as well as both of my upper thighs, yet it never scarred deeply. I chose areas that people would never see and prayed that I wouldn’t accidentally slip and show anyone, (I had a very flat stomach and didn’t mind if a shirt crept up.) If anything it at least kept me modest. I had depression, I knew it but I didn’t want anybody else to know it because I didn’t want to be perceived as weak. I would briefly tell people sometimes about how I was feeling but always they annoyed me with their concern. I hated the worried concern and I didn’t want people that I loved to worry about me I felt an irrational amount of annoyance to it. I hated sympathy yet longed for it. The summer after my freshman year of college a boy dang near broke my heart. I had cared for him more than anyone and worse, I had allowed myself to trust him. Someone who guarded themselves as thickly as I had allowed myself to be open to the scrutiny of someone they cared deeply about. I confided in him, I could talk to him for hours and hours about the simplest things, but I had put my trust in the wrong place. I allowed myself to trust someone that didn’t realize what a tender and broken creature he had on his hands. I don’t blame him for hurting me anymore but he pushed me to the darkest point of my life. He moved away from me for the summer and I felt after a month or so that he was starting to pull away from me a bit, rather than be tortured by the thought that I could be losing him I pushed him away. I still don’t know everything about how he was feeling or why he had stopped talking to me as much but I know that I hurt him greatly too. I was working two jobs and was in an emotional crisis. My mother had complained to me that her MS was flaring up and that she was feeling a lot of numbness in her legs and my dad’s heart began to fail him, he was going to have to undergo a small heart surgery. I took their pain into my heart and allowed it to become my own. That was always one of my biggest problems, I have always taken my loved ones pain on myself and really the pain of one person is enough for anyone to handle. I was frantically trying to cling to the world I knew but it was falling apart in scraps. I started starving myself at the beginning of the summer partly as a coping mechanism and partly thinking I could keep the boy interested if I was more attractive. I began to go to the tanning bed even though I was fair skinned and started to get my nails done. I went on a spending spree and bought hundreds of dollars’ worth of clothes. He had hurt me and I was going to make him pay for it, at least in my mind I was, by cutting myself and starving myself and feeling worthless. Yet in some way I wanted to get back at him, as irrational as it was, by trying to make myself more attractive. I thought that I could do it by getting skinnier, tan, and putting more effort into my appearance. The summer ended and I was terrified that when I went back to school I would see him, but I wanted desperately to see him. I accidentally ran into him at a friend’s apartment and my roommates told a humiliating story about me in front of a room full of about ten people including him, I was absolutely horrified and humiliated. I felt like I couldn’t trust anyone. There were many nights in the months that followed that I would begin to sob uncontrollably and be unable to breathe. I would become so frightened that I would go into my sister’s room, which was living in the same apartment with me at the time. I had no words to give to anybody to explain what was happening inside of me, just uncontrollable sobs. I continued to search for people to care about me. I was willing to do a lot of things and put up with a lot of things if it meant that someone would stick around for a while and act like they liked me, but at night when I was alone, a feeling would creep over me of sickening sadness and the uncontrollable sobs would escape. My one accomplishment was that I had managed to lose weight and I thought I looked good, but one day a roommate snidely said to me in mocking laughter, “You’re too skinny, (the boy that had broken my heart) told me you look too skinny and sick.” I’m sure she thought she was doing me a favor but it was a hard blow. To know that even my best attempts rendered me unattractive was almost too much. The only thing that pulled me out of this dark time of my life was the acquaintance of an apartment full of boys that were very kind. They were living their lives in the right way, and I found myself attracted to one boy in particular. I knew that he was better than me. He was whole. He wasn’t broken and he was innocently pure. I wanted to make myself worthwhile to him because something deep down inside of myself had always wanted to prove to people that I was worth something. We had a lot of fun together hanging out with a group of friends. We started out as friends because he had a girlfriend and I clung on because he gave me hope that I might be happy again someday because I was happy when we were together. I knew that if I wanted him to like me I couldn’t hurt myself physically anymore so I stopped. We began dating after he broke up with his girlfriend and soon after we got married. I know that if I were to ever cut myself again he would feel completely betrayed and would not be able to trust me again, so I don’t, but it is very hard to break away from self-harming thoughts, and they might be the more dangerous of the two but at least nobody will ever know about them but me. People that cut are not weak people; they are strong people that just deal with their problems in different ways than other people. I think the best way someone could have helped me wouldn’t have been to cry over me and when people attempted to be understanding I just wanted to slap them, I wish someone would have reminded me how strong I was, I wish someone would have said “you can do it, you don’t have to feel this way, I know you can pull yourself out of it.” I wish that they wouldn’t have acted like I was to be pitied I wish they would have distracted me from my obsessive negative thoughts rather than validating them. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have accepted a silent hug no matter how hard I may have pretended to push it away, when I try to push my husband away it means more to me than anyone could know that he doesn’t let me because it reminds me that I mean something to him."
The following experience is my own. I
personally have found it helpful in giving me strength to share my story in
hopes that I may help others. - Natalie Colby
"I don’t believe
that I had a hard life compared to a lot of people who had it really hard,
however my experiences, whether they don’t seem that very difficult or not -
were difficult for me. I had parents and siblings who tried to protect me
and help me be happy. I did have some happy moments, however there were
some real stressors in my childhood/adolescent years that I didn’t always know
how to cope with it all, and unfortunately at times how I coped was
self-inflicting wounds. There were issues within the family (immediate
and extended) that were difficult to handle. For years I have also
suffered, which was actually only diagnosed a few years ago – Generalized
Anxiety Disorder. Throughout elementary and junior high school I was the kid
that was picked on because I was the chubby kid with glasses. People who
knew my nickname as Nat Cat would call me “Nat Cat the Big Fat Cat” or the
really common one for those with glasses - “Four-Eyes”. In high school I
had a boy that stalked me by finding out my class schedule and attempted to be
at the classroom door when my classes got out. Inappropriate touching occurred,
I would say no, but he would not stop. He threatened to harm and
humiliate me more if I told any of the school officials. When you have
tons of kids around, and some kids are just oblivious to things or don’t want
to step in and help, you don’t feel safe and feel you just have to put up and
fend for yourself. Finally, one day my English teacher saw an
inappropriate move he made on me and immediately stepped in. We went to
the principal’s office and the issue was taken care of, well at least I thought
it was until random calls were made to my home and my parents stepped in and
made a call to the police. The young man was warned by police with a
possible restraining order if he did not stop – he stopped! Even though
that stopped, the damage had been done and I felt gross inside and out.
These are just a few things that I experienced that to me were difficult to
overcome. I felt of no worth, not beautiful, and that I am only good for
teasing and inappropriate touching. Through those years I did some
harmful acts to my body. Little cuts that they never really turned into
scars. Cuts were made on my hips, bottom of my feet, some on the wrist or
very upper part of my arms. I still have a little habit of biting my
nails today, but back then I would chew on my nails to the point I would bleed
just a bit. I would pinch the underpart of my arm until it was red.
Take erasers and rub them on the skin of my upper arms and legs. I would
always hide them and the few times they actually were visible I lied on how they
were obtained. I tried quitting during my senior year of high school and
got better. However, towards the middle part of my first year of college,
I became really depressed because it was extremely hard to make friends with
some roommates or anyone I met on campus. I was not doing good at school
as I would have liked, no matter how hard I tried. I became careless as
my self-esteem went down because of my failures. Cuts got bigger, and
then eventual drinking of NyQuil to knock me out, and then alcohol. It
wasn’t until my third year of college, when I almost died from binge drinking
that I had the “wake up” call. Went through substance abuse counseling
and counseling with a church leader. Also became more open with my
parents about my feelings and why I drank and the cutting and other harmful
things. All the counseling, parents help, and returning to developing a
faith in God helped me overcome my insecurities and pains I had. I served
a mission for my church, and I ended up meeting people who were very open with
me about harming themselves too. Where I didn’t necessarily share my own
experiences, I used and taught the things I learned that God asks us to do in
scripture to overcome our trials in life. It was refreshing to help
others, and in a way, helped me to even love myself more and overcome more
insecurities and hurt. Even though I have overcome so much, I still
struggle from time and time just like anyone else, and thoughts of harming
myself come and go without actually physically harming myself."
The following personal stories come from real
people in my life that have overcome self-injurious behaviors. They were
willing to share their past struggles anonymously in hopes of bringing
awareness. They hope that through their journey of recovery it will help
others to know that a person can overcome theses struggles with the appropriate
help.
Note: All of these stories are represented by
people over the age of eighteen. -Kim Bird
"I use to self harm by hurting myself with
cutting. I used it as a way of controlling my own feelings since I could not
control my circumstances with life. Self harm helped me manage my emotions and
letting myself release it all through a controlled pain. I'm sure anyone has
seen my scars on my arm. I’ve been on meds, didn't help, not until now being
older. Honestly, I believe my mother getting me into energy therapy and guided
meditation worked the best. That therapy was deep breathing letting go of past
pain, it also helped me stop using hard drugs." –Anonymous
"I began self harming when I was 15 and it's
something I still struggle with on a daily basis almost 10 years later. I
initially began self-harming after a cousin confided that several family
members had sexually abused her since she was young. What she told me confirmed
what I had always felt but never understood as a little girl when staying at
that relative’s house. She had many issues and over the course of that year I
convinced her to not commit suicide over the phone. Many other things happened
including my father's health issues, a boy I liked was killed in a car accident
on his way to give me roses. It's hard to tell the whole story but as a result
of several difficult and traumatic things self-harming was my destructive
method of coping. A close "friend" knew I was self-harming and
suggested places to cut that were not noticeable. To this day that sickens me
that that person knew and effectively did nothing to even help. My parents
noticed a particularly bad cut on my arm and accepted my excuse it was a bad cat
scratch. I've always felt I could handle things and therefore I never told them
all the things that were happening to my cousins including the phone incident.
I made a promise to a friend to not cut and one night just could not resist and
that was my breaking point. Sitting in bed crying over a broken promise, and
feeling so lonely. The feeling that self-harming was bad but it felt like a
release. It was not until 7 years later I told my mom about the self-harm.I saw
a therapist around that same time and having someone acknowledge that what
happened to me and my cousin really did happen was such a relief. After telling
my story he simply looked at me and said "I feel sorry for you and you're
cousin." After years of the family pretending none of that bad stuff
happened that was a turning point. It took more time to become aware of my hair
pulling issues and to be mentally aware of when I was doing that behavior. It's
hard to write all of this in a chronological way since its all one jumble of
tangled things. The things all fade into one after awhile which I’ve always
found so comforting yet highly confusing.While I am better now, I still have
lingering issues with self-harm. I have one particular spot that I can't seem
to not pick at. Bug bites and cuts are such a temptation. Recently I got a bug
bit on my arm and kept picking at it. So now it's slowly healing but will leave
a not so attractive mark on my arm. The urge to pick at my face has almost
completely gone now that my acne is under control thanks to 6 months on
accutane. It's a struggle to not self-harm and pick at my skin. The bug bit on
my arm though was a wakeup call that i need to stop. Self-harm is something I
suspect I will always have to become aware of....It's the reason why I got rid
of my collection of push pins years ago. I only keep the right amount to tack a
poster on my wall. It's taken me years to realize that crying is not a sign of
weakness and one should not be ashamed of it. I wonder if many of those things
I’ve dealt with my life including my mother’s depression and hoarding
contributed to the self-harm. I've learned over the years that one can only
control your actions and not the ones of others around you. From my mother I’ve
learned the importance of realizing that even a negative situation can be
viewed as a positive learning experience. I live by the saying "it could
be worse"...it helps me keep a healthy perspective instead of letting
negative thoughts distract me. I've worked many years to think this way and
when talking to people impart some good positivity to the conversation. I like
to think it helps others and it's far better to make someone ponder something
positive...life is too short to think such negative thoughts.
Self-harm is such a misunderstand condition that people presume so much about it yet are so quick to judge at face value. When my father found out about my self-harm all he said over and over was "you should have told us what was going on with your cousin. This was an adult issue." That made the whole conversation worse...I knew I should have talked to an adult ...of course I know that now. It's bad enough to tell someone about something you are ashamed of doing but when all they are doing is making you feel more ashamed it's horrible. I suppose it was not surprising considering my dad's roller coaster moods and ability to make one cry just from their tone of voice. I've learned to have nerves of steel but it's a sad thing when a child learns that crying only makes it worse." -Anonymous
Self-harm is such a misunderstand condition that people presume so much about it yet are so quick to judge at face value. When my father found out about my self-harm all he said over and over was "you should have told us what was going on with your cousin. This was an adult issue." That made the whole conversation worse...I knew I should have talked to an adult ...of course I know that now. It's bad enough to tell someone about something you are ashamed of doing but when all they are doing is making you feel more ashamed it's horrible. I suppose it was not surprising considering my dad's roller coaster moods and ability to make one cry just from their tone of voice. I've learned to have nerves of steel but it's a sad thing when a child learns that crying only makes it worse." -Anonymous
"I used to have problems with self injury,
PTSD, & depression. I still of course have PTSD, as that's a lifetime
issue, but luckily I was able to get the help I needed from extensive therapy
and a good support system. It has been many years since I have had any issues. My
self-harming of choice was primarily cutting, but I did some burning, and
starving myself. It started as depression in high school when I started to try
to deal with past abuse and issues from my messed up childhood (a whole another
issue). Finally in college my bishop convinced me to get in therapy. It started
to help with the depression. Things kind of ended poorly with that therapist
because she ended up being my friend's roommate and thought it was a conflict
of interest. I stopped going to therapy for awhile. I tried a few other
therapists, but no one helped. I worked with a doctor and got on medication for
the depression. It took over a year of trying many antidepressants when we
finally found one that helped. I had some dark times for 6 years and really dark
times for 3 years. I had a lot of issues with nightmares and intrusive thoughts
of hurting myself. The thing that helped things turn around was a therapist
that worked for me. It was a style of therapy that is called the ACT model. It
helps you focus more on what your goals and objectives in life are and how you
can achieve them, instead of always focusing on the negative things in life and
the past. It still helps you deal with your issues but is a more positive
approach. It was life changing and I was able to learn the coping skills I
needed to deal with my issues. I was even able to get off my medication. It's
all part of my past now and an ugly one that I am so grateful for therapy and
my religious beliefs that helped me in my recovery. I still have issues with
terrible nightmares, but I have the skills and the logic to deal with them,
that's part of the PTSD I will have probably for life. I never thought when I
was going through all of it, that I would be happily married with beautiful
kids. I'm so glad I got the help I needed and people that cared enough about me
to push me to get the help I needed." –Anonymous
This is the story of a close family member that used self harm as a way to cope with the sever anxiety and pressure. She used a variety of different methods of self harm. She is not alone in this; many self harmers use more than just one method of self-harm (Laye-Gindhu, A., & Schonert-Reichl, K.A. 2005). When I asked her to share her story she did so openly, but requested that I change/leave-out any names. -Heleena O'Shea
“My ballet teacher used to always say that the pain was temporary. My muscles would ache and my feet were burning, but she’d always tell me to keep going and hide the pain on my face. Pain was temporary; I wasn't going to reach perfection without it.”
“My parents, teachers, and coaches expected perfection. All I wanted was to give them that. Turns out when you’re trying to be perfect, all you’ll ever feel is worthless. My depression and anxiety really started to get out of hand when I was in 5th grade. I didn't want to disappoint my parents so I didn't tell them what I was going through. I used to pinch the inside of my thigh and between my toes, whenever I was feeling anxiety or frustrated with myself.
Ballet was my passion and my curse. The perfection that my parents expected from me in school trickled over into ballet. The pressure from my teacher only made things worse. I started to cut between my toes, my feet always bled from ballet so it wasn't obvious. I’d pluck hair all over my body with tweezers just for a little bit of relief from the pain in was in emotionally. I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t better. Why I couldn't be as good as I needed to be. Occasionally if
I was particularly disappointed with myself I’d slam my hand in a door or burn my self with a curling iron.
I started to heavily diet when I entered 7th grade. Ballet kept getting more competitive, being thin is extremely important. My teacher and director liked to remind me of this consistently. I became addicted to not eating. It kept me on the top in ballet, and it was the only aspect of my life that my parents did control. I was in control and that was liberating in some sick sense.
Unfortunately I wasn’t really in control. When I was six-teen I was taken to the hospital after passing out in the middle of a ballet performance. It was in the hospital that I admitted to a nurse I’d known for three minutes, that I stave and mutilate myself. I was institutionalized at a clinic for people with eating disorders. I was finally free to fall and tell my story, tell people what I had gone through. I was comforted by everyone else who had felt what I did.
I sometimes still want to fall into my old routines; luckily I am still in close contact with friends I made when I was institutionalized. I still go to them when I need extra support. It’s much easier for me to focus my energy into other activities now, than it was when I was young. As an adult I can reason and rationalize. My advice to anyone who is going through what I did is, of course, to talk to a professional. Perfect is only in your head. It’s not real. For those of us that suffer from emotional disorders like myself, we need help to come to terms with this.”
“My parents, teachers, and coaches expected perfection. All I wanted was to give them that. Turns out when you’re trying to be perfect, all you’ll ever feel is worthless. My depression and anxiety really started to get out of hand when I was in 5th grade. I didn't want to disappoint my parents so I didn't tell them what I was going through. I used to pinch the inside of my thigh and between my toes, whenever I was feeling anxiety or frustrated with myself.
Ballet was my passion and my curse. The perfection that my parents expected from me in school trickled over into ballet. The pressure from my teacher only made things worse. I started to cut between my toes, my feet always bled from ballet so it wasn't obvious. I’d pluck hair all over my body with tweezers just for a little bit of relief from the pain in was in emotionally. I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t better. Why I couldn't be as good as I needed to be. Occasionally if
I was particularly disappointed with myself I’d slam my hand in a door or burn my self with a curling iron.
I started to heavily diet when I entered 7th grade. Ballet kept getting more competitive, being thin is extremely important. My teacher and director liked to remind me of this consistently. I became addicted to not eating. It kept me on the top in ballet, and it was the only aspect of my life that my parents did control. I was in control and that was liberating in some sick sense.
Unfortunately I wasn’t really in control. When I was six-teen I was taken to the hospital after passing out in the middle of a ballet performance. It was in the hospital that I admitted to a nurse I’d known for three minutes, that I stave and mutilate myself. I was institutionalized at a clinic for people with eating disorders. I was finally free to fall and tell my story, tell people what I had gone through. I was comforted by everyone else who had felt what I did.
I sometimes still want to fall into my old routines; luckily I am still in close contact with friends I made when I was institutionalized. I still go to them when I need extra support. It’s much easier for me to focus my energy into other activities now, than it was when I was young. As an adult I can reason and rationalize. My advice to anyone who is going through what I did is, of course, to talk to a professional. Perfect is only in your head. It’s not real. For those of us that suffer from emotional disorders like myself, we need help to come to terms with this.”
The film
below, “Skin Deep-A Short Documentary on Self Harm” done by Eli Broomhall and
Nick Czurylo, is a documentary sharing one young man’s story of self harm as an
adolescent. Along with his story, two specialists give their input into the
issue of self injurious behavior. As in much research on this Facebook page
points out, as well as in the text Adolescence 9th ed (Steinberg, L., pg. 426),
much of self injury comes out of internalized emotions. In this documentary,
traumatic events throughout the course of life are discussed as what drives
adolescence to resort to self harm as a coping mechanism. There is an emphasis
put on the cycle of the feeling of shame. The adolescents are ashamed that they
used self harm to cope, but this feeling of shame is then internalized, and
causes the person to once again harm themselves. The young man explains this as
a routine he followed. The film gives a short but moving, first hand look at
self harm in the form of cutting.
The following experience is my own. -Jana Sandberg
"In elementary school around grade four, I started
to get teased because I was a little chubby, wore bargain hand-me-down
clothing, and glasses, and I liked to read and enjoyed school assignments. All of
these characteristics were targeted and though I didn't mind too much
at first, it quickly got out of hand. I would get circled in the school yard
and brutally verbally abused and tormented. It made me want to die. At that
time, I didn't understand how people could be mean at someone else’s expense
or be mean to have fun, so I assumed that there was something really wrong with
me to warrant that kind of negative attention. Going into Jr. High School, I
hated everyone, myself most of all. I avoided talking as much as possible and preferred
to spend lunch period alone. There were a few people who tried to reach out to
me, but I pushed them away and spent Jr. High feeling lonely and friendless. I
had black moods where I felt the world was ending, there was no tomorrow, and
all I’d be left with was the horrible feelings that I had every day. During those
times, I would cry silently, because if you cried out loud, someone would ask
if you’re okay and I preferred to cry uninterrupted and alone. Can you imagine
what it’s like to wake up in the morning wanting to die because you hate
yourself so much? I tried to make myself throw up a few times because I was
convinced that I was fat and everything else I had come to believe was wrong
with me. I believed that I deserved to be punished for being such a horrible
human being. I scratched my skin with a needle in the same place over and over
until I bled, and then scratched some more. The pain was like a live-wire and
distracted me from the horrible feelings I had about myself. High school was a
little better; my self image was starting to improve as I pursued music and got
healthy and fit. I was starting to learn that what people think about
you doesn't hold as much weight as I was placing on it, and that my
tormentors were elementary school kids having a good time at my expense and
most likely weren't seeking to annihilate my self esteem. I was starting to let
go of all of the negativity that had grown inside me, though the hurt remained,
even if to a lesser degree. Occasionally, I would go cry in the bathroom during
lunch and skip class because I didn't want to show up with a
tear-stained face for everyone to see. I still found it difficult to get out of
bed some mornings. I don’t mean how it’s difficult for most teens in general to
get out of bed in the mornings. I mean that I didn't see any purpose to life and
it didn't matter one way or another whether I lived or died, let alone got up
and went to school. Despite these
difficulties, I did well in school to meet the academic pressure I was feeling
and graduated in the top ten percent of high school graduates in the state of Utah
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