Peeling Off the Shroud: Addressing Self-Injury

Friday, March 1st is a very special day for me. To meteorologists, it is the first day of spring; a day of renewal and rebirth. I got my "Love" tattoo on my wrist four years ago on March 1st. It's also Self-Injury (SI) day.

Why does this day hold so much importance to me? Because I am an SI survivor. I have been clean and on the road to recovery since

I don't share this with many people. In fact, there are only a handful of people that know about my battle with SI; it isn't a conversation for the dinner table or for the first date. "Hey, you know I went through this crazy phase where I was so depressed that I would drag razor blades across my arm." Yeah, that is a guaranteed no second date right there.

Sadly, for me to even address my addiction (because eventually that's what SI became to me) as a "crazy phase" is not accurate at all. SI is not a phase, a laughing matter, or a growing pain. Like bullying, it's an epidemic that can progress to damning affects.

I can't say what exact moment in my life made me start cutting: what hurtful comment in the high school hall made me break or which rejection made me want to scratch away the very flesh that I had been trained to see as vile and grotesque. I can tell you I was 17 and it was a warm fall day when I smuggled one of my father's forgotten razors out of his workshop. I remember crying and feeling like my insides were systematically ripping apart from the turmoil inside me. I remember staring at that cold silver gripped between my calloused fingertips for a good half-hour as the battle of good and evil waged on through my mind: you are ugly, you are stupid, you are no fucking good and no one will ever want you. The words filled my mind, arms, hands, and fingertips with just enough poison to succumb to the unthinkable: within five minutes, I had six bloody sore cuts along my stomach; hidden away from the eyes of those who saw me everyday, but still there for my constant reminder that things were not that divine on the surface. From that day forward, I added to my collection; wound upon scar.

My secret stayed safe with me until one day my mother visited me at college. Being away from home, twenty years old and adjusting to a life of confusion, made me falter in my clandestine methods. I began moving cuts from my chest and thighs to my arms; keeping them fairly hidden with coat sleeves and thin shirts. I, however, slipped up the day of my mother's visit and exposed them as I washed some dishes in the dorm sink. My mother knew you simply never got more than five cuts on your arm, all perfectly symmetrical, on accident. I remember how she grabbed my arm, staring in horror at the carnage that I singlehandedly created on my own flesh. How she shook her head in shock as she asked why over and over. I remember how she kept saying, "You are so afraid of even getting a shot at the doctor's...how could you do this to
 yourself? Doesn't it hurt?"

I didn't know what to say to my mom. How do you explain that the physical pain is so much different; that it numbs all the heartache inside. That you can control one thing despite how negative it is to your body?
I tried finding the words; anything to convince her that it was nothing her or dad did to me. That it was just...me.

It took another two years for me to see that I needed to stop. In those two years, I had hallmates come to check on me after two days of not seeing or hearing from me. I had a best friend named Damon who would check my arms to make sure there were no fresh cuts, or worse, infected ones. I had my father tell me that he would take away my car keys if he found fresh cuts not as a punishment, but as a piece of mind. He admitted that the entire family was afraid I'd go off the deep end and try to kill myself in an accident. All their fear was brought on by me and my struggle. My niece even broke down one day to my mother, telling her she was afraid I was going to die. Anyone who knows me knows how much I love that girl, like a daughter. That was my breaking point. I was not going to let my family suffer because of my problems. It was March 2007 when I threw away the razors and started clean. Since then, I am cut free.

It's not easy in the slightest. Like any addiction, I fear a relapse, but I have disciplined myself. When I think about harming my body, I take that urge and focus it on the things I love: my family, friends, writing, knitting and photography. I count my blessings and forgive my flaws. I remember the things that I love about myself. Today, with the help two groups that I participated in called P.R.O.T.E.C.T and the Fat Group, I have evolved from self-hate to full blown love and pride. The first step of recovery is acceptance...that was my saving grace.

It took me weeks to decide to publish this; to come clean with my demons. Society has taught us to feel shame for our flaws; to feel disgust, scrutiny, and shame for self-infliction. SI is not a comedy skit and anyone dealing with it should not feel ashamed, but convinced that it is okay to talk about and, most importantly, to seek help. This is me: six years clean, happy, and safe. If I can come out, so can anyone else, but it needs to start with acceptance, an open heart, and an outstretched hand.

This Friday, please reach out and show your community, your family, and your friends that you are aware of this epidemic of SI and that there is nothing to be ashamed about. Together, we can beat this and not let it define us.

Some things you can do March 1st to show your support:
-Wear orange
-Draw a butterfly on your wrist in homage to The Butterfly Project
-Write "Love", "Refuse to Sink", or "Keep Fighting" on your arm

Till next time, sending all my love to you,
-Dee Dee

Finding a Forever Home: A New Outlook on Online Dating

In the wee hours of the morning, a girl or a guy sits in front of a computer and looks for their soul mate, partner in crime, and their new best friend. They are looking for that person that stops the white noise that constantly plays at loud volumes around them. That person that can love them for who they are despite their flaws and past regressions.

In essence, the dating sites are the human's version of the animal rescue shelter: one place built under one promise that someday we will find our person. A missionary for the neglected, lost, and lacking love. We are all looking for our forever home.

I've been on this roller coaster of online dating on and off for the last eight months and it can be a challenge, especially to a phat girl. You take down your guard and put yourself out there: through words describing "who you are", "what you represent", "describe your personality in one sentence", and other endless, vague questions. You post photos of you, some flattering, some out of your comfort zone (here comes that cleavage shot...kidding, kidding!), and some of you passed out drunk off Wild Irish Rose on a(nother) lonely Saturday night...okay, maybe that picture "ctrl + alt+ dels" from the album and, ultimately, from your computer. Sure, you take the risk of a chubby chaser or some asshole that sends you messages just to refer to you as "Roseanne" (yes, this has happened to me rather recently...sadly, the douchebag that called me that looked like a fucked up version of Ralphie from A Christmas Story. I wonder if he liked it when I told him to go shoot his eye out....lol), but you have to try, right?

This morning as I laid in bed talking to one of the sweetest people in the world, it came to me. I'm looking for that forever home. Like those neglected animals at the rescue shelter, I'm sheltering myself on these dating sites for past neglect, hurt, disappointment, and constant let downs. I've got scars from hurtful words, no calls, and no shows. My past could lead people to believe I'm not willing to love again because I lack trust and compassion. I could be labeled as abused and able to be aggressive, to bite any hand that comes near; not the case at all. Like these animals in the shelter, I am looking, wanting, and needing that second chance. I am dying to be loved despite my own fears. I am looking for my forever person and not my fifteen minute fling.

We all are waiting to be rescued and sometimes we think our time is running out and we are on the doorstep of being euthanized.  We suck ourselves into the mindset that our timer is about to go off as every year passes. We fail to keep in mind that we survived some fucked up shit; shit that made us question our worth, our roles in this screenplay called life..shit that made us almost fall off the cliff....almost.

When I get to this point; this point of no return, about to get off and get out, I think about Speedy, the 85 pound basset hound.

Speedy wasn't an AKC champ and he certainly wasn't a good hunting dog. Hell, that dog was the laziest fucking dog I've ever encountered hands down. He was locked up in the humane society for months for being a stray. No one wanted him because he was old and, like me, phat (again, I refuse to use the word FAT). His days were numbered in many foster parents' eyes. He was the reject of the kennel and soon enough he was on the list to be euthanized.

The day before his "dead dog walkin'" day, an amazing man came to the shelter to deliver a sackful of bread like he did every week. He was a man that swore up and down that he would NEVER adopt another pet, being that he had six dogs, a cow, a goat and ten outdoor cats. He was getting old and caring for another animal was just too much at his elder age. He was stern and dead set on not bringing another animal home...until he saw Speedy. It was love at first sight: the old man got down on his tired knees and pet him, praised him, and scratched behind his floppy ears. It was a match made in Heaven. As the old man stood up, trying to pry himself away from this sweet, imperfect creature, he was told by one of the volunteers at the site that Speedy was due to make his maker the next day. It was then that stubborn old man decided one extra dog wouldn't break him.

Speedy, the imperfect basset hound, got his forever home that day with my grandpa, Arthur. He kept my grandpa's feet warm on cold winter days, "laughed" at his jokes, and stayed vigil by grandpa's side the day he left us, a year later. Speedy was there to heal my broken the heart the day of the funeral, sitting by my side with his head in my lap as I cried for the man we both loved and lost. Needless to say, Speedy stayed with his family.

Everyone needs a forever home. Everyone deserves that second chance. Someday, may it be today or a few months from now, it will happen for us still waiting and healing. We just got to keep strong and keep moving. That's all you can do, right?

Forever yours,

Dee Dee


Thickspiration: Speedy Petey Swigart - The 85 pound basset hound that got his happily ever after.