Why I self-harm

First of all, a warning: I talk about self-harm in depth, with some descriptions of injuries and anxiety. This is just a way to document my feelings after a self-harm episode.

As someone who self-harms sometimes, I know it’s wrong.

I know it can have lasting effects that I might not want later in life, that it doesn’t fix the problem, that I’ll have to hide it if I don’t want to be judged, or pitied, or seen. I’m sure that everybody who self-harms knows all of that very well, and I’d bet that everyone has, at some point or another, vowed never to do it again, to stop forever and find a better way to cope.

The problem is, sometimes you don’t see another choice. Sometimes, your thoughts are a hurricane, and it’s loud, and dark, and strong. It literally sweeps you off your feet, your vision blurs, and you can’t see, and you can’t hear, and you can’t speak. It’s so terrifying that you’re willing to do anything to get rid of it.

You need something that will keep you grounded, but it can’t be just about anything. It must to be loud enough that it will disrupt the storm; urgent enough that it will bring you back to reality for a while. It has to force you to stop the hurricane.

Unfortunately, pain does that. The second you hit a nerve, your instincts go crazy, telling your brain that there is a problem to focus on. And your brain, your stupid, stubborn brain that doesn’t believe your mental illness is a priority, stops everything to fix the physical pain.

Because this pain exists. Because you can touch it. Because you can see it, in the cuts and the bruises and the blood. Because it feels real, much more than all the thoughts that live in your head. Because it’s like bringing the storm outside, and suddenly you have proof that you’re not crazy, that there is something wrong, that you’re not making this up. It’s as if the hurricane seeped through the pain, and just for a few seconds, you can breathe.

When there’s a break in the storm, you think back at what you’ve done. You stop hurting yourself, but you don’t stop thinking. It’s not as simple as feeling guilt, or relief, or both. Brains are much more complicated than that.

It’s guilt, because you did something that’s very wrong, and you’ve let down the people that believe in you, and you’ve hurt yourself, and you’re not supposed to do that.

It’s relief, because it’s over, and you can see more than two inches away from your nose, and the world is real and it’s there and you’re in it again.

It’s fear, because what will happen if somebody sees what you’ve done? How will you hide the bruises? How will others react? What if this is the last straw, and they finally reject you?

It’s frustration, because you’re tired of this. You don’t want to be the mentally ill friend. You don’t want this monster to define you, but it does, and you hate it so much it feels like another storm is rising.

It’s fascination at the marks you’ve left, because they’re proof that it happened, that you’re here. And you touch them and memorize them and keep track of them, and you don’t know how to feel when they’re gone.

It’s dread, because you know it will happen again, and now that you’re thinking clearly, you’re afraid of hurting yourself again.

It’s not the calm after the battle. There is no calm. It’s moments like these when life feels the most like a war against yourself; there’s no rest for people like you. You can just regroup, ask for help, and prepare yourself for the next confrontation. The pain will fade away eventually, and maybe you can come up with another strategy.