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
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