Truth Thursday: Today I Leave Behind

Today I leave behind my self-harm habit.

From September to December of 2013, for reasons the legitimacy of which I now find difficult to justify, I had fallen into the habit of self-harm.

My dad has a small basket in his cabinet where he keeps his grooming kit. Earbuds, deodorant, bandages, isopropyl alcohol, earbuds, and—for some reason—a swiss army knife. When I was sure no one was looking, I’d snatch the knife from the cabinet, go to the bathroom, and swipe the blade across my forearm quickly enough for the pain to register but not excruciate, and in such a way that the cuts were always shallow. Never too deep to damage a major vein. The smallness of the blade made it seem to me that it was less of an issue than it actually was.

It’s embarrassing to tell people this. The act of cutting yourself was inextricably tied to middle school/early high school scenes and subcultures most everyone seemed to outgrow, and admitting that one subscribed to the habit of self-harm seemed like an act of immaturation, regression, devolving. Psychology has this term for a particular mindset which they call the “personal fable.” When you’re anywhere from eleven to sixteen years old, you think the sadness you feel is so big and so phenomenal and groundbreaking and exclusive to your realm of experience that no one, in the history of ever, has felt the way you do. That’s the personal fable. Even after sixteen, people are still guilty of this brand of narcissism. Admitting to anyone that you drew blood to concretize whatever pain you were feeling, to establish a sense of control over a situation where you had none, could still be seen as a pathetic thing, hearkening back to a time when the personal fable was everybody’s language, contrived because it was driven by whatever strains of media and peer pressure ruled over your younger, more naïve self. Of course this isn’t the case for everyone. Just because one’s habit of self-harm is linked to an out-of-trend subculture, that doesn’t make the emotions behind the act are any less valid.

It was about December when I decided to stop. Self-harm became a default coping mechanism, not just for big problems but for minor annoyances as well. After a while I figured, well, I’d die if I kept going the pace I was going. The added annoyance of parents catching sight of my wounds, plus a few good friends, and the thought of “Man, I can’t wear long-sleeved things forever!” were also incentives for me stop.

Sorry if this piece sounds like a gratuitous “Hey look at my feelings, THEY ARE IMPORTANT, LOOK AT THEM” blurb. It’s just that, before the tail-end of 2012, I didn’t know how people who resorted to self-harm felt. It’s hard to imagine for anyone, even for the people who practice it. Why would anyone do that to themselves? The people who continue to struggle with this urge (they’re more common than you think) don’t always find an exit that allows them to swing back into the groove of happier things.

If you’re struggling with self-harm, don’t be embarrassed about seeking professional help. I don’t know about other schools, but check your health services office and ask to see a clinical psychiatrist. If they don’t have one, maybe your Guidance office does. It’s embarrassing to tell close friends and family about this sort of stuff precisely because they know us. Being able to talk to a stranger who’s trained to help you really takes a load off, and allows you to find connections between past and present behaviours. If you’re worried about how corny it’s going to feel, it’s okay. There was a couch when I was talking to the psychiatrist who accommodated me, and before I knew it, I found myself reclining on the couch, fingers steepled on my stomach, talking about my relationship with my father, of all things, which is just a really cartoony thing to imagine, but it happens, and talking it out helps. Thinking about it is one thing, but no matter how clear those thoughts are in your head, saying them out loud produces a different effect, and you’re allowed to process your thoughts in a way you previously couldn’t.

And to the friends who are unsure of what to do if they confront a friend subscribed to the habit, just don’t be all, what the fuck man? You know your friends best, so I can’t claim to know what’s going to lift their spirits. Just don’t act disgusted, even if you are.

Take my word with a grain of salt, though. I’m certain there’re other people out there who’ve fallen into deeper shit and made more triumphant comebacks. Though I am hoping that, whoever this reaches, if this is relevant to your situation, keep an open heart, don’t let the world mess you up. Corny as it is to say, there really is a lot to live for. The urge still crosses my mind every now and then to revert back to that old habit, and it might be the same for you, but honestly, your energy’s better off spent on other things. Taking walks around your village, watching local bands, getting your hands on dirty ice cream, rereading old books, air-guitaring, telling lame jokes, laughing at your own lame jokes, it’s a routine where the only constant thing is variety. It takes practice to settle yourself into that position of playfulness. It helps to surround yourself with people you love who also happen to be people who love you, and it helps to never doubt these things.

“Speak every time you stand so you do not forget yourself. Do not let one moment go by that doesn’t remind you that your heart beats a hundred thousand times a day and that there are enough gallons of blood to make every one of you oceans. Do not settle for letting these waves settle and for the dust to collect in your veins.” —Anis Mojgani, Shake the Dust

Drabble

(In which short messages are made to secret addressees)

1. When I read “I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness,” I thought of you first. Future: employment. Past: the ex-boyfriend. Here you are, trapped by two ghosts.

2. At fifteen, we shaped ourselves in the mold of subcultures. This was true for everyone. The cellophane streaks of your  hair tell me this much hasn’t changed.

3. You take Fight Club way too seriously.

4. It was your arrival in the youth ministry–the discipleship group I was a part of, in particular–that first stirred in me what I first thought to be sinful. It hasn’t been the same since Canada took you. Canada takes everybody.

5. The first and last time we met was in a hotel room overlooking old Manila. I think the both of us were surprised to find another Creative Major there in a throng of pre-grads like myself, so you were kind of a giant in my eyes, never mind the fact that you were a white New Yorker who had just gotten into Jose Garcia Villa. Have you heard of him? The rest of the evening conducted itself in semi-chaotic fashion. The haze of cannabis clouds and Daft Punk eventually unraveled–I think at one point I just started eating stems–and come morning you were gone. The occurrence of you wasn’t even necessary. There was nothing grand about it.

6. Your boyfriend’s a fucking deadbeat and your obsession with fixing broken things will be the death of you. What, you think you’re doing him a favor by treating his self-destruction as a hobby? Day will come he’ll OD on some shady shit and it won’t be so easy to believe in your Jesus.

7. As soon as I caught sight of you holding a cigarette, what did I do? I taught you how to breathe properly. Now you talk about your leave-of-absence status like none of your failings were your fault. Do I share blame in your shortcomings? Was cultivating a vice my way of ushering you into a scene of degenerates? Where will you go now?

8. Being a fresh high school grad surrounded by college upperclassmen, you were also kind of a demigod in my eyes, and I the mere mortal. First time we met, we were with a handful of mutual friends, and you took us back to your condominium to smoke haseesh. You would let a small flame lick a black stone, enclose it with a shot glass and let the smoke bounce off its walls. Then you’d open it up just a little bit, enough to suck in the smoke with a thin paper tube. Enter the Land of Partyphilia. Population: currently dwindling.