ex-S.I.

remembrance

2008-04-06T16:34:00.000-07:00

I recently learned that a friend of mine committed suicide. Didn't even live to see thirty.

I threw myself into busy work without thinking why I did it. It's a usual pattern for me, when troubled by things I cannot change, to take up cleaning with astonishing gusto. In particular, I like to scrub the stove-top. The repetitive motion and the energy spent seem to soothe me.

So today I sorted a box I hadn't been in for years. I hadn't thought of it till just now, but they were things from around the time I best knew my friend. I count myself lucky that none of them made me think of who I had lost. It's too fresh a hurt right now.

And I found one of my old razor blades. It was a twisted, brittled thing, torn out of a one-use disposable shaver. Such blades are thin and flimsy; if you remove the entire blade, it flops like a rubber stage knife. You can't control it. So I had yanked first the left third of the blade, then the right, and what I found today was the middle third of the original metal.

Had I used it? There were stains on it, not red anymore but a sickly orange-brown. Yes. I'd used it and then stored it in a little metal box, which then went into a junk bin in my storage. Metal to ensure the blade wouldn't accidentally slip through cardboard or between wooden parts. It was partly a safety issue for myself and anyone else who might have come across it, but mostly it was about control. I controlled my flesh. I controlled when and where I would cut. I controlled that detail but I was not in control of my life.

I have not used that blade today. I won't use it. I don't have the need anymore, so I'm getting rid of it. I don't have proper sharps disposal and I want to keep the metal box I had used before, so I am waiting to throw away my blade until I find a proper container for it. I may have a bottle of expired over-the-counter painkillers; the pill bottle can safely contain the sharp (and the expired medication) so it doesn't cut the garbage handlers after it leaves my possession.

It's breaking me down that I overcame this, but my friend didn't live to. I know I was never the stronger of the pair of us. None of it makes sense.

recognizing the pattern

2007-10-27T16:44:00.001-07:00

I have not written for a long time because I haven't had to. I am doing better. I have not cut myself for years. I have not intentionally hurt myself at all for many months.

Lately I have been reading about eating disorders though. I have never had an eating disorder, but it all sounds familiar despite that. There is a distinct parallel between self-injury and the binge-purge pattern.

First you relieve some tension by doing the bad thing, by cutting or binging. It doesn't feel very good. Maybe you cry while you do it. It doesn't matter. You're not in control; you could not stop it if you tried -- at least it feels that way. By the end, you do feel a bit better. Endorphins are high. But you're not done yet.

Now you have to do the "good" thing. You purge, or you clean up the spilled blood and bandage your wounds. You get rid of the evidence so you can't be found out. You're taking control, you think; you're taking care of yourself.

But your health still decays, and the emotional rollercoaster sometimes gets a little off track, and then more than a little...

The most important parallel is this: There is always hope and always help. Sometimes it's hard to see that, but it is always true.

doldrums

2006-11-27T02:31:00.000-08:00

I hate winter. In the cold, I can't stalk down the sidewalk until I'm too worn out to dislike myself -- if I tried, the sting of incipient frostbite would drive me indoors. Instead I stay inside.

I'm almost healed again. Some early autumn trauma drove me to punch myself repeatedly in the thighs. It did not bruise nearly as much as I had hoped. Some self-preservation instinct keeps me from using enough force to really leave a mark.

I feel good now, deadlines and impending Yuletide aside. Not great, but good; I can live like this. I can for awhile, anyway. Eventually something will come along to tilt me sideways. At that point, either I will have stumbled into something that can get me through, even if it's just once -- or I'll have found nothing new and will be too worn out to do anything except follow the downward spiral.

It's not that I think I'm hopeless. I'm not. What I am is sick of a prolonged low mood. I'd like to be mostly in the middle range. I'd like my emotional high point to be in the upper third of possible human emotions. I want to occasionally feel very good, and usually feel okay. Currently I might get up to "that's nice, I guess" and my usual state is wanting to go back to bed.

I'm hanging on for the love of spring.

relapse

2006-06-18T21:54:00.000-07:00

I've been having a difficult time lately. In addition to my mental state of disarray, I have a medical condition that can affect my mood. My medication has changed lately; my body hasn't caught up the difference yet. The last few days have been particularly bad, especially at night.

The familiar sensation lurks again on my upper leg.

Scissors. Half-dozen lines -- my usual, though in the past I would sometimes keep cutting until my self-hatred was momentarily spent. Pressure on the blade to force the skin to gape slightly and bleed more.

I am not proud. I knew it wasn't the best way to cope. I did at least take the precautions of using a sharp blade, knowing that a jagged blade could leave a jagged wound, and of lavish aftercare. I washed it out with rubbing alcohol, which causes renewed bleeding but was neccessary to keep everything clean and infection-free. Covered everything with a jumbo Band-Aid, the kind kids put on skinned knees, and haven't dared to look since.

Afterward, I was afraid that I was back to my old ways. I told myself in near-hysterics that this was strictly a one-time backslide. The surprising part is that I believed myself. This does not make me a cutter again. This does not mean that I have lost everything that I've gained. All it means is that I have been having an extraordinarily bad time and resorted to extraordinary behavior in order to cope.

My situation will improve. My body chemistry will even out. It's better not to cut, but I am not a bad person even if I do cut.

The words are stupidly simple. I don't care. They are my magic that keeps me going.

scratch

2006-04-17T11:41:00.000-07:00

Holidays are always a bitch. I've been wanting to cut for about a week now. I haven't done anything worse than punch pillows or wander rural areas crying with all the might of my soul, but damn, have I wanted to cut. There's a lot of interpersonal relationship crap going on, nasty stuff that sends me headlong into depressive episodes.

Luckily I got a scratch when walking around in the boonies. It didn't bleed, but the skin was broken and the scratch was too long for one Band-Aid of average size (I used two together). It was a nice sort of release. Part of my healing sequence when I would cut was scouring the wound with rubbing alcohol -- it stings like a bitch, maybe even worse than the cutting -- and then tenderly applying antibiotic ointment and bandages to help it heal with a minimal scar.

So when I got an accidental scratch during this time of emotional turmoil, it meant that I got to enact this healing sequence without the part where I deliberately wound myself. I was able to use rubbing alcohol, my personal reminder that I hate myself after I cut. I had my chance to take care of myself without first damaging myself. It was really good.

better

2006-02-25T03:29:00.000-08:00

I started this journal when my mood had sunk low. I've been doing a lot better since then, most of the time. I still keep a red marker near my bed though. (I use it to "slash" myself instead of slicing with a razor. It's very much a recovery behaviour and I am not proud of it, but it still beats the odd itch of fresh lacerations.)

I'm also accident prone so I take extra care of my banged shins. Treating my wounds was when I would remind myself that I hate the scars, the secrecy, the second sting of rubbing alcohol on fresh cuts. Now I hold ice over a stubbed toe, or carefully apply ointment to a paper cut, while I remind myself that I am not quite the person who would cut. I've changed -- not completely but I have truly changed.

I do not know if I can stay this way. Maybe my old urges will bring me down again and I will find myself bleeding into the bathroom sink just like before. Those fears are why I keep this blog even when I'm not actively posting. I have a good feeling though. I think maybe I can do this for good.

phone

2005-07-21T10:36:00.000-07:00

I just got a phone call asking me to come into town and do something that would be good for me. I know this. It's not a big deal at all and I should go.

I said no.

I panicked -- something becoming common for me, to my dismay -- and had to say something into the phone. I couldn't think what to say. I absolutely despise driving through that part of town (I had a collision there awhile back) and I didn't think I could get a ride in time.

And my first instinct when I hung up was, cut.

I hate this. I feel like I'm not getting even a little bit better. One little thing goes wrong and I begin having thoughts of striping my arms with my own blood. That can't be remotely healthy. Why is that still there? What have I done wrong that permits those awful thoughts to stay?

A stronger woman could defeat this, I tell myself. She wouldn't even think of cutting. A stronger woman would have the self-assurance to say, I'll be there in ten minutes, and mean it. She could drive without impact and take care of herself. Her brains wouldn't muddle when asked a simple yes or no question and she wouldn't collapse in a weary, teary puddle when she got off the phone.

God, I'm too weak to stop wanting to cut and I'm too weak to just cut and get it over with. I'm that fucking low.

jewelry

2005-07-10T02:31:00.000-07:00

Oh my God, I want to cut.

I just lost a piece of jewelry very dear to me. It was a gift from a close friend. I don't have close friends anymore. It will be a long time before someone who isn't my mother gives me jewelry.

I've looked everywhere for it. I admired it on myself in the mirror on the hour, and fifteen minutes later I reached for it (something I do often to comfort myself) and it wasn't there. It may have fallen into the toilet; if so, it's probably gone forever. I went through every single piece of bathroom trash in case it fell in there (I was wearing a shirt over my tank top and I think the jewelry got bumped and fell when I removed the shirt so I could wash my hands without wetting the sleeves.)

I want to cut something into the spot where the jewelry belongs, something that will always be there. I can never lose my scars. And the blood would calm me as nothing else can.

The other day, I needed the smell of blood so badly that I pricked my pinky and held it right under my nose. It wasn't enough blood to work very well, but it helped slightly.

I'm screaming at God. I had just been grateful for this lovely gift of several years past and now it's suddenly gone.

My mind is gone, I know that -- temporarily it's gone, too. I'd rather have the jewelry back than my mind. My mind has my moods in it and they're nothing but trouble.

I had reached for my jewelry because I wanted to wrap my hand around it. It was a small anchor that reminded me that I was not alone, that people cared, that if I could just hold on my erratic mood would dissipate and I would be fine again.

Now it's gone. In its place is the knowledge that I am alone. I don't have friends anymore, only people who used to be friends. I have no one who can find my little anchor (bold and colorful though it is, presumably easy to find -- though apparently it isn't). My moods get worse all the time.

I want to cut. I am a wretched girl if I can lose a gift even as I wear it. Such a person doesn't deserve nice things, deserves only punishment well past the point where she begs for forgiveness.

I can't think where else to look. It was only fifteen minutes and the little bugger should stand out brightly. It should have made a noise when it hit the bathroom floor, or a plunk as it hit the toilet water. It could not have fit down the broken sink drain. I was not near the shower. It should be on the floor within mere yards of my present location. Could it be by the window? The front door? I can't remember anymore.

I had just taken a picture in the mirror of myself wearing it. I remember adjusting my pose to show it off. Was I wrong to want to show off my precious possession?

I have lain on the floor, feeling with my whole body for it. Stripped naked and examined each article of clothing in case it caught on the fabric. Begged the Divine to tell me what was wanted from me in exchange for the return of my dear gift. Retraced my steps as best I could. Moved furniture to see if what I desired lay behind or beneath. I have gotten nowhere.

Why does this hurt so much? Why am I still crying an hour after I first notice the absence? Surely a mentally healthy woman would have been irritated with her loss at the time, but let it go by now. Why can't I let go?

Of my hurts, that is. Obviously I can drop jewelry at a moment's notice or with no notice at all.

Out of my jewelry box, I have only two bits more precious than the one I just lost. Both of them are reserved for fancy occasions. I just wanted that one gift to be there for me even on grubby days.

This is what I get for not cutting, for trying to find another source of comfort -- I get loss, blame, and even more yearning to cut than before.

I have punched my leg in anger. It's sore but unbruised.

I want it back. I have to keep trying or I'll cut. I can't let myself. I don't want to. I want to be okay and safe and God, it's so damn hard. I don't understand why it's so hard for me.

strange yen

2005-07-02T00:44:00.000-07:00

I don't know what's with me lately. The urge to cut is rightthere, immediately underlying every little thing that goes wrong. It's popping up even with nothing in particular is bad, too. For example, last week I found a serrated knife when I did the dishes, and my prompt inclination was to use on my limbs. I went so far as taking the knife with me to a corner where nobody would see me bleeding. I stopped before using it and put the knife away, taking care to hide it behind it bretheren so it wouldn't tempt again.

What is this strange yen that won't let me go? It took me over a year of no cutting to consider myself free of it, but I'm not truly free. Instead of cutting, I poke with needles or squeeze in a doorjamb. I don't think that's well. It's an improvement in that the scars don't form anymore, but it's still dangerous and sub-optimal.

Ideally I should be writing wretched poetry about my inner angst or something. Alas, I despise free-form poetry and cannot rhyme to save my life, so no poetry from me. Instead of constructive creativity, I've been going for long walks in ill-fitting sandals. This creates blisters for me to open and bathe in rubbing alcohol. It hurts like motherfucking hell, blissful pain without a bloodshed. In a mentally ill kind of way, it's quite nice.

setup

2005-06-27T10:47:00.000-07:00

I think I'm almost done rearranging crap on this site. I wanted to have a few pages that aren't really entries, so I set those up first. It seems simplest to use June 2005 as a holding pen for that type of non-entry pages. With that in mind, I intend to hold off on really posting until July. That gives me some time to determine just how gory I want to get, what details are too specific, and if the built-in Blogger templates, while lovely, are default enough to turn people off. In the meantime, ice cubes and red markers to you all.

links

2005-06-27T06:46:00.000-07:00

(If you are here because you self-harm and want to stop, or because you know someone who self-harms, please visit self-help or help for friends and families respectively. Both pages are from the next site on this page.)

Secret Shame: You are NOT the only one -- extremely helpful on all fronts of self-harm. I highly recommend it.

Stop Harm message board; I don't often check in here, but it seems helpful.

Or Google self-injury, self-harm or other variants.

disclaimer

2005-06-27T05:01:00.000-07:00

WARNING: Here shall be frank discussion of self-injury. If you don't want to hear about wounds, have a disposition towards harming yourself, or suspect you know the writer personally, you should probably stop reading this site.

I reserve my right to post an entry about the products of cutting without further warrnings or spoilers. This is all you get. Please make yourself safe before reading anything on this site, whatever safe means for you -- if it's being sure to set the coffee down while scrolling through the text or collecting your Gillettes and asking a friend to keep them for an hour, until you find something else to occupy yourself.

Don't try to discover who I am. I don't need help staying safe and healthy. If I feel someone to pushing too hard to discover my indentity, I may shut down the site to stop them from scouring it for evidence to support their theory. I don't want to do that, but I already have a black mark on my record from having been a mental in-patient. I can't afford more. If you believe for whatever reason that I you know, that's spiffy for you, but just leave it alone, if for no other than reason than there are a lot of young women fitting my description and it's probably one of them you know, someone who is like me but is not me.

profile

2005-06-26T13:17:00.000-07:00

Hi there. I'm the writer behind this blog. Call me "Exsi" (rhymes with sexy) in lieu of my other screennames. I want to remain as anonymous a possible, but there are a few general tidbits I don't mind revealing.

I am a young woman (adult, thank you) in the United States. I have been diagnosed with depression, as well as a smattering of other mood disorders whose labels never stuck to me for long -- God bless the crazy world of psychotherapy. I am not currently in any treatment for these disorders. I did not "just stop going;" my therapist ended my treatment, saying I was doing well enough to stop.

I was not very open with my therapists about my cutting (and later, bruising and others). I had to keep that secret. Most therapists, once they learn their patient self-harms, insist that you stop immediately. Some refuse to treat self-injurers, denying deeply need help even to people who want to stop, but can't go cold turkey. They don't know how. Once you feel the rush and subsequent calm of self-harm, it can be very difficult to find alternate coping methods. Nothing else feels as good -- or scars quite so deeply.

I was lucky. I finally cut deep enough to realise I had to stop, or someone would find me bled out on the bathroom floor and think I committed suicide. I couldn't let that happen. I checked into a mental hospital (which was scary as hell, however comforting they tried to make it), stayed until discharged, continued my outpatient therapy, and generally tried to be an upright, healthy citizen.

But some nights, I still fall asleep crying for want of a razor blade to instantly relieve all my stress. It felt so good while in the act, good enough that I remember the blush of peace more than the anxious First Aid and long sleeves in summer that always had to follow. It's this dichotomy that I plan to explore here.

contact

2005-06-26T13:14:00.000-07:00

The blogger behind this site (let's call her Exsi after her URL) wants to remain anonymous. For the present, an extension her anonymity is the lack of posted e-mail address for contacting her privately. Please feel free to chat in the comments section. If the need arises to provide an address, Exsi will try to covertly provide it.

about

2005-06-26T13:13:00.000-07:00

I have kept a blog since before they were called blogs. I used to mention whatever problems I was having.

Then people I knew in real life began finding my blog, reading about my self-harm, and taking it upon themselves to try to stop me from continuing to cut myself. This furthered the stress that caused me to cut in the first place. The only release I could find for it was more cutting. Needless to say, this meant my friends' good intentions didn't help me at all.

I stopped cutting in 2003. This doesn't mean I stopped harming myself. I've taken to sometimes depriving myself of sleep, striking my legs with a wrench, biting my arms to leave puffy black bruises. On other occasions I have destroyed pillows, traced my desired cut lines with a harmless spoon instead of a knife, poured red dye into a sink instead of my blood, and several other methods of simulating the self-harm experience without actually leaving scars (or, in some cases, causing any damage at all.)

I am starting this journal to chronicle my desires to self-harm, in all my lapses and successes, in the hope that anonymity will free me to be truthful with the world. In my experience, having to hide my cuts and bruises has furthered my yearning to damage myself again and more fiercely. Perhaps if I can be honest with the public, albeit through the veil of a Blog*Spot URL, I can help myself and others to discover a life without wants of self-harm.