What you need to understand, first and foremost, is that there are a lot of ways to self-harm from hitting, scratching, biting or cutting oneself to self-deprecation, starving, forcing self to vomit, abusing drugs or alcohol, etc. Anything that intentionally harms ourselves physically, emotionally or mentally is a form of self-harm. And it needs to stop.784Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXwY006bIlC
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Here's my story of self-harm, and the tragedy that was necessary for me to stop:
When I was seven, I became the target of bullying. Literally everyone who 'needed' someone to pick on in the school knew who I was, and how to torment me, despite I had never met the majority of them. It was this hushed rumor that I was the 'class punching bag'. So I was tripped, beaten, had my hair pulled, my possessions were stolen or vandalize, I was tormented verbally... and the school did nothing when it was reported. They said it was a matter of 'he said, she said' and they couldn't do anything without proof. Bumps, cuts and bruises weren't proof because, as I child, I was 'bound to hurt myself playing outside'.
This continued, quite literally, to grade 10 when... I'm getting ahead of myself.
At age thirteen, I began to self-harm. I put myself down on literally a daily basis, believing I truly was as worthless as people had said – it had conditioned me to hate myself, to hate the 'flaws' others perceiving – even the things which were false. I opened up a new shaving razor and took one of the blades from it. I began to cut my right wrist whenever I showered – across, not down, because I simply wanted a release from the pain. The physical pain helped alleviate my mental and emotional pain – but the internal scars were beyond healing overall.
This continued for years without anyone noticing or caring – except for my bullies. Someone saw my arm once, by chance, despite I wore long sleeves to hide the shame associated with my secretive self-harm. My torment became worse, if that were even possible. Now, I was shamed for self-harming – my only release from the mental torment I felt. I was now told on a daily basis to 'get it over with and just kill yourself already'.
So I did.
Or rather, I tried. One of my only three friends and I made a suicide pact, and decided to utilize it.
Background: She was the 'school slut'. Because she had a slightly older boyfriend, and they were sexually active together, now she was supposedly a slut and shamed for it. The relationship that gave her happiness was stripped away to become something she should regret and feel ashamed over.
We skipped school one day, and walked out through the middle of a -20 degree (Celsius) town to an abandoned bridge that swung precariously above the river. Twisted metal, wiring and broken boards were a mess below it and few of its supports were still in place. It had been boarded off, but it was easy to scale the 'wall' blocking it.
We stood together, a few feet apart, looking down at the rushing river. We couldn't imagine how cold or painful a death in the river would be. But we were going to find out.
I stood up on the railing of the bridge and prepared myself for the icy depths. I took a deep breath, but then I heard my name being called; I looked over to see my then-boyfriend at the fencing surrounding the bridge. He had been concerned and followed us there. However, at this point, I was already determined to jump. My friend, on the other hand, wasn't so sure and never even got up onto the railing, much less jumped with me.
I don't want to really detail beyond that, save for the fact that my then-boyfriend was the one who pulled me from the river. He bundled me up, made sure I was alright physically, and helped me get back to the school and then home afterwards.
But, despite his caring, I was still unsure whether I should carry on in pain.
Background: Around age fourteen or fifteen, my best friend, Danny, had become involved in drugs. It started small, doing something here and there to get a bit of a buzz, then it spiraled downwards – despite his claims that he 'had it under control' and 'didn't need my help or concern'.
When word got out about what I had done (it was a small town), my parents were devastated. I could hear them crying often in the days following. That night, Danny called me. I don't remember the entirety of the conversation, but it boiled down to 'I love you too much to lose you'. I promised him I would stop self-harming.
You might think that perhaps this story has a happy ending? I wish it did, I really do.
Later that year, Danny overdosed. My small friend circled dissolved, as we couldn't cope without the 'glue' that held us together. My heart broke, and I cry even as I write about it now.
The last thing I had done was promise him I wouldn't hurt myself again. So, instead, my parents agreed to move me to a new city where I could finish my school years. I struggled with depression in the years that followed, I become anorexic, and I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder after I told the school counselor I wanted to kill myself. But I never cut myself again, no matter how badly I wanted to.
It took breaking my parents' hearts and losing someone I loved with all of mine to realize how much damage my actions were doing. Self-harm doesn't just hurt you, it hurts everyone who cares about you. And no matter what you might think, there is always someone who cares about you.
Now, I share this story, the story of Danny and myself, to support groups working with youth in order to help them comprehend how their actions hurt others. When they see me break down crying nearly every time, I can see something change in their eyes. It hurts to reopen the scars every time, but it's worth it when I find out I've made a difference – that Danny is still making a difference for people today.
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