My Self Harm

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Why am I qualified to write this piece? Why, because I live with the reality of being a self-harmer each and every day. I started self-harming when I was about ten years old. It took the form of taking my penknife and trapping each one of my fingers whilst the blade was trying to shut. I would lie in bed to see how long I could stand the feeling, and then move on to the next finger. Alternatively I would strangle myself with my hands placed tightly around my neck, to see how long I could with stand the lack of oxygen. This graduated to many minutes in front of a mirror watching my face turn purple, as I slowly asphyxiated. After a number of these occurrences, I realised the sense in using a ligature-usually a tea towel to gain a better purchase when tightening my grip.

On one occasion when I was eleven, I tied a napkin around my neck and pulled, I watched my face go red as it always did then purple, then for a brief moment I remember glimpsing my face ashen and drained. I must have passed out at that point, the next thing I remember is seeing myself lying on the bathroom floor, in the foetal position. I was somehow above my body floating up near the ceiling, I could see myself as I looked down, as I moved my head I could see the marks on the walls high in the corners that I hadn't been able to see from standing on the floor.

The moment I began to question where I was, I began to feel myself coming around on the cold bathroom floor. I lay for a second trying to make sense of where I was then realised I was laid in exactly the position I had seen myself earlier. I slowly picked myself up and went out into the dining room. My mother asked me what on earth I had been doing in the bathroom for so long. Apparently I had been in there for over fifteen minutes.

To this day I believe I had what is commonly known as an out of body experience. Interestingly I have never tried to repeat the experience. However I have self-harmed many times since, the first time I actually cut my skin intentionally was when I was sixteen. It was late at night; I had hold of an art tool used for scratching those silvered pictures. I took the implement and started making a series of tiny scratches on my arm. By time I had finished there must have been twenty or so 1 to 1 1/2 inch scratches on my lower arm. They bled and I watched fascinated as the blood trickled out of each individual cut warm, sticky, rivulets of red ran down my arm, till I would lick them back to their source.

I can see the room where it took place I was sleeping on a bad mans couch and it was very late at night with nobody to see me. The next day I hid my arm from view, I felt ashamed and guilty as to what I had done. I was afraid people would start asking me awkward questions that I knew I didn't have answers for. Over time the scratches healed and left no visible scar, but I remembered the feelings from that night; excitement, danger, elation, then the feeling of relief as the blood flowed from the cuts.

The behaviour continued on in to my late teens; with the cuts becoming longer and deeper. I would attack different parts of my body then lie in some strange ecstatic euphoria, as the blood ran freely away. Sometimes I would write the objects of my inner turmoil in blood on the walls or on paper. Other times I would press the cut against things paper or the side of cupboards to reveal an imprint of my pain. I was binge drinking at the time, sometimes I would engage in cutting then leave doors open in the hope that someone would find me. Sometimes I was found other times I was not.

Having been introduced to drugs by the bad men I used to know, I was fully aware of what an overdose was. On numerous occasions I attempted to overdose on painkillers. One time I walked three miles at least, to visit different garages to obtain three jars of paracetamol. I was sure if I asked for three in one outlet that they would not sell them to me. When I had my tablets I took them home and lined them up, wrote something of a suicide note and furiously began taking them.

Continued....Next Page,

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