JASON

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When I first started to intentionally harm myself, I have been feeling depressed for a long time and almost nobody believed me (and those that did belittled the extent of what I was feeling). I think my motivation in the beginning was abnormal compared to everyone else; I knew that when you get hurt, your body releases endorphins that are supposed to help with happiness and pain relief. I thought that if I did something intentionally, anything physical, my body’s response would alleviate some of the emotional pain.

At first, I started punching walls as hard as I could, as many times as I could. I quickly realized that I was not a fan of the pain specifically. Over the next couple days, I started to enjoy the appearance of the bruises and the slight pain in my knuckles when I made a fist, unlocked a door, or lifted a book.

Over the next couple weeks, the bruises just weren’t enough anymore. I tried to punch myself, but again, despite thinking it was something I deserved, it’s not the pain that I liked. I got my pocketknife and put it against my skin. I was genuinely afraid of making the first cut. What if someone notices the cut? I don’t know how badly it’s going to hurt. If I regret it, the mark can be there for weeks and potentially leave a scar forever. But I pushed through, thinking if I make the cut quickly, whatever happens would be tolerable. As it turned out, making the cut was not enjoyable (and never became enjoyable). But there was something about the way it looked. For the first time I didn’t need anyone to believe me about what I was going through. When I saw the blood and the scabs, my body finally reflected how I felt and that relief made the pain worth it. As time when on, I started cutting daily. From there, every inconvenience made me feel like I needed an outlet and that was my vice. At first, I was hiding the cuts from everyone, but when there were too many it just didn’t seem worth it anymore. I started walking around in shorts sleeves with cute on my thigh, chest, forearms, biceps, and shoulders. The depression actually made me like seeing peoples’ concerns. I felt like intimidating people gave me some power over them and I wasn’t so enslaved to my feelings. The low was when I started drinking and sleeping around (which is another article entirely). There were times that I’d steal my roommates pocketknife because I misplaced mine and always put it back (washed) so he didn’t know and that progressed to bringing a razor blade to work with me every day (in my pocket so if I felt depressed or stressed, I could feel for it which gave me some comfort).

I made sure to hide my cuts from the people closest to me, until I got drunk one night and showed a friend. He told his dad, who told my parents. I was so embarrassed months but looking back that mistake was the best thing that could have happened. My parents, friends and brother all believed me for the first time. They went from, “You just don’t seem depressed to me” and, “I think you’re feeling happy, but you expect to feel a level of joy that most people don’t have” to helping my find a therapist. Shortly after I went to the doctor for something entirely unrelated and he said it was time for my flu shot too. When the nurse came in, my sleeve was rolled up and she saw my cuts. She called the doctor in and asked, “So are you going to tell him, or should I?” I showed him my arm and he immediately got me an appointment with the psychiatrist who started me on Zoloft.

Fortunately, the Zoloft helped a lot but there were some side effects that made me want to stop taking it. Over the four weeks that it took for the meds to take effect, the biggest two issues were, at the time, my anorexia was exacerbated, and I hated that the medication made me hungry. The second was that there were some issues with “intimacy”. When I brought them up with my primary, he switched me over to Wellbutrin, which worked really well, but in phases. My depression was completely gone one day, and hit me twice as hard the next. He added Lamictal to it (a mood stabilizer) which resolved the issue.

I still see my therapist and take the medication daily, and my depression as almost entirely dissipated. Although it comes back occasionally (and less frequently the self-harm comes back with it), my quality of life is incomparably better.

 

After all that, there are four points I want to really emphasize:

1. The self-harm was a symptom of the depression, not an issue in of itself.

2. The reasons for my self-harm are not necessarily the same as anyone else’s.

3. I’m writing this with pride, to spread awareness. Any sympathy would defeat the purpose (I want you to read this, accept it, and continue with your day).

4. The medication and therapy takes time. In the moment it is hard to acknowledge the meds will ever work, but sticking to the regiment and being open with your doctors will make the difference (believe me, talking to my doctor about my “issues with intimacy” were not easy).