Her vacation had turned into a frenzied attempt to wade through long-neglected files and paperwork and to get them into some order, a chore too-long put aside. The obsession to complete this task had turned into a nightmare of memories, forcing themselves into her awareness by the unavoidable necessity of having to actually read every scrap and page in order to categorize each one properly. So she would know where to put them to be able to find them again easily, if she ever needed or wanted to. She found herself dwelling on one page...
Self-injury is one of the most misunderstood types of personality disorders on the books. First reported in 1960, the disorder has been scrutinized by mental health professionals, doctors, teachers, and others who have come into contact with it, either directly or by word of mouth.
It started when she was eight; tiny pricks of a needle, minuscule droplets of red smeared easily with a single finger as her eyes never left the current site of attack even as she felt the pounding of oceans in her ears, the fuller capacity of her lungs, the pounding in her chest. Even then, so young. Afterwards, she would wash with care to avoid such a thing being noticed. The smudges - dried and crusty.
Self-injury is a method that many patients use to either replace one pain with another [strong emotions], thus diffusing feelings that they are unable to deal with, or to force themselves to feel something instead of the numb void of nothing. It becomes a vicious cycle resulting in shame, confusion, and alienation.
When she hit fourteen she was using the jagged edges of briars and thorns from stolen roses. She took obscene delight in blotting her youthful poetry, written on paper tree bark that had been peeled and prepared so very carefully, with the proceeds, leaving her fingerprints there on purpose. When it was brown, she could say it was hot chocolate - not that it came up but only rarely. She kept them to herself, hidden in her box of treasures, under her night shirts, in her dresser, in her room. She had no understanding of the ritual, and didn't need to. She didn't think about it at all. She pushed it away from her everyday self and it never came into her mind until the next time.
She didn't think about a lot of things. She had learned a long time ago how to block them out. The abuse, the invasions, the conflicts and confinements in an otherwise perfect world. Cherished by her parents, privileged in so many ways, the twinges of shame and confusion served only to fuel her self-constructed alienation. But not for very long at any given time.
Early on it was viewed as just a way for the cutter/self-injurer to get attention. While this is true in some cases, especially those that involve people who are incarcerated [in jails - adult and juvenile, hospitals, group homes, etc.], it has been proven to not be the most common denominator.
By the time she was twenty-one, she had graduated to razor blades. She had to be more careful, to find areas of her body not likely to be easily discovered. She slept gowned in the dark, made love with the lights out, showered alone. But she thought about it a little more. Planned. It had become more difficult to hide the tell-tale evidence from prying eyes. Often the waiting was as satisfying as the deed. Painful. A focal point. Waiting. She took to grinding her teeth in anticipation of it, even as the humiliation grew.
Self-injurious behavior is seen in many patients who suffer from a wide range of psychological diagnoses, and in most cases are given the separate diagnosis of self-injurer - although it is still all too common that anyone who self-injures is labeled with borderline personality disorder. This term generally results in the patient being treated as an outcast, and when asked what to do with them, many are told, "refer them".
For many who self-injure, there comes a time when their eyes are opened to the possibility of change. They realize there is hope, there are answers, there is a way to break the cycle. That perhaps there are other tools to help them cope.
She went into therapy when she was twenty-four, after she remembered something too terrible to name. But she had not mentioned this one thing. Her therapist told her she was the most defended person he had ever treated. She didn't see the relevance, she didn't think it necessary to discuss it, she wanted to keep it for herself and not let go. It was her answer, her safety net. She needed it. She was not willing to have it explored, to have it deteriorate into something diagnosable. Not yet. Not yet.
Entering her thirties it had escalated to knives. Knives with serrated edges. She would orchestrate some situation to be able to leave in a huff, stomping off and daring anyone to follow her. Then she could take her time, sitting behind the wood shed with her knees drawn up to her chest a long while before she opened the blade, dragged it slowly across her exposed skin in precise and even lines, the moon her only light. As always, dredging through the gleaming produce with a thumb was its own reward, the instrument held slack in her fingers.
There came the day that he noticed the scabs, caught her picking them raw, drawing her nails through the blood again, and he interogated her about it. She told him the truth and he cried - grieved that she felt she had to shield him from it; dismayed at the reasons. She felt guilty about it then, guilty for the first time. Affecting someone else with a habit she couldn't adequately explain. She didn't know why, back then. It didn't matter.
When that point is reached, they will see light at the end of their tunnel, and hopefully reach out for it; a decision that only someone caught in the dark trap of self-injury can make.
When she was older, she faced it for what it was. She did the work. She became as compulsively focused on this now-isolated thing as she did with everything else. She talked about it more openly. But it remained clinical for a long time. Intellectual castrations. Avoidance.
His support was quiet and non-judgemental, like the bookmark he once slipped into a book she was reading. Not the usual butterflies or fairies or hot air balloons. This one was inscribed: We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic cords of memory will swell when again touched, as surely they will be by the better angels of our nature.
Acceptance followed in due course, and she knew all there was to know. Still, she had her episodes. But she thought about it first, waited again. She did not give in to it as often. She found other ways to cope, other outlets, even if her favorite and most effective was his fingers around her wrists and his breath on her neck, when he was there to share his strength and remind her of something.
At least it was an informed choice, at least she knew her responsibilities, at least she wasn't hurting anyone else in the process. She thought.
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