The Begining of the Story

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

This has been kind of a backward story - one where I let you all read the last page before you read the first paragraph. That's what happens when there isn't a plan. I thought I'd talk a little about how I got to the final page - or at least the final page of this particular chapter. Some of you know parts of the story, but there is so much more that hasn't been told. A couple of side notes though, before I begin.

First, due to years of on-again, off-again counseling, some great friends, and a little help from God, I no longer have any animosity towards either of my parents for events that happened in my childhood. It was what it was, and they did the best they could at the time. I try to use what I learned as a child in a more productive way rather than as a point of continuous blame, furry and anger. My childhood experiences gave me many more gifts than hang-ups.

Second, in no way am I justifying self-injury/self-harm as an acceptable way to deal with overwhelming emotions. Does cutting work for me? Yes - immediately and efficiently. Does that mean I should continue with it? Absolutely not, and I strive daily to use more appropriate coping mechanisms. It's a constant struggle but one I know I must battle.

~*~*~*~*~

Self-injuring started fairly early in my life. I'm not certain how early, but I have concrete and vivid memories of using self-injury as a coping mechanism as early as 11. At that age, I had no idea why what I was doing made me feel better (laying my hand on the concrete floor of the garage, or on the sidewalk, and hitting it with a baseball bat), but I knew I couldn't let anyone know I was doing it. Not only would they think I was crazy (a common and continuous fear throughout my life), but even worse, they would stop me from doing it. My limited 11-year old logic knew - in some convoluted way - that self-injury was all that was keeping me relatively sane, That somehow my brain would explode if I didn't get the emotions out in what soon became the only "safe" way.

How does an 11 year old get to that point? I can only tell you how I got there.

I've touched a bit on the dysfunction of my home growing up - a raging, violent, physically and verbally abusive, alcoholic father and an overly codependent mother were my only role models. We were isolated from extended family, so there was never any accountability. This was the late 60's and early 70's - kid's were to be seen and not heard. Very few people were even aware of the impact of things like alcoholism and domestic violence on children, and certainly no one was talking about it. What happened behind closed doors stayed behind closed doors. It was "Don't ask. Don't tell" at its finest.

As a child, there was no safety net in my life. There wasn't a parent or adult I could go to who would listen to me and validate my feelings. There wasn't anyone who could save me from the abuse because I couldn't tell anyone what was happening at home. Things were to be hidden. I was to put a smile on my face, get good grades, perform well in sports. Our home situation was to remain guarded at all costs.

I learned early on (maybe at 5?), from watching the beatings my mother received, that expressing any emotion - specifically anger or fear - resulted in bruising and bleeding at the hands of my father. Emotions must be kept inside, bottled up, NEVER displayed in front of my father. Any slip-up on my part and the sting of a belt on my bare flesh, a closed fist across my face, or, in later years, a loaded shotgun placed to the side of my head were instant reminders of where those emotions belonged.

The problem was that, as I got older, the emotions became more and more difficult to stuff. Food kind of worked (still does sometimes), but getting fat had it's own down side - I was an embarrassment to my parents. That angered them both and and resulted in the addition of verbal abuse to the physical abuse. I was a "fat cow," a "failure" and "lazy." This was a vicious cycle - more and more wayward emotions needing more and more space to be bottled up.

One day, or maybe over the course of years, something changed ...

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~