The Middle

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As children often do, I internalized what was happening in my home and convinced myself that if I could just be a better daughter - get better grades, be prettier, be a better athlete - not only would my dad stop abusing my mom (that was my fault you see - she "paid" for my shortcomings), but maybe, just maybe, my dad wouldn't need to drink any more (that was my fault too - he drank to forget about my shortcomings). If I punished myself, then my parents wouldn't need punish me and I would still learn my lesson. Causing myself physical injury seemed the most appropriate punishment as it was the one most often used in my home.

What I discovered, quite accidentally, was that my mind felt better when the physical pain was self-inflicted. This was very different from experiencing physical pain at the hands of my father, which always hurt far more emotionally than it did physically. This was an emotional RELEASE. Sure, there was physical pain, but the self-inflicted physical pain was completely overshadowed by the emotional relief.

The only down side was that at times I would get so caught up in the emotional relief that I wouldn't stop the physical pain before injuring myself. On three separate occasions I broke bones in my little finger, but was able to explain it away as I was always active in sports. It got jammed playing basketball. I got hit was a fastball when I was up to bat. No one even gave it a second thought, other than to punish me for the additional strain on the family budget for a doctor's visit. I eventually learned when to stop.

Looking back, I can see that self-injury/self-harm was a common thread throughout my life. If it wasn't a baseball bat to my hand, it was was a more socially acceptable form of self-injury/self-harm like over-eating, abusing alcohol and drugs, smoking, bulimia, etc. You see, if we are honest with ourselves, many of us routinely practice self-harm rituals. The difference between you and I may only be the "flavor" of the self-harm, but we get there on the same path.

People openly admit to over-eating, alcoholism or even drug abuse. Society has deemed those as acceptable ways to self-harm - but cutting? Oh no! Only sick, crazy, suicidal people do that. No ... cutting is far worse - or is it? Is the discomfort, outrage and disgust outwardly shown really about the cutting, or is it about it touching a little too close to our own lives - knowing that our "flavor" of self-harm manifests for the very same reasons? Be honest. Those who are not judgmental tend to be those who see that although they might never cut, it's not really that far removed from where they are now, or have been, at some point in their life.

Again I will say that this is not an attempt to justify what I've done, or what I may fall prey to in the future. Not at all. Self-injury/self harm is NOT a healthy way to deal with emotions. I know that and I'm working to change that. What I am trying to get across is that it is no worse than the 6-pack after work, that bowl of ice cream after dinner every night, the hours and hours spent online as an escape. No, not worse, just different, although I would venture to say that the shame experienced afterward is every bit the same.

There is a bigger picture here - one that I don't want anyone to miss. It is so easy to judge - to condemn the behaviors and actions of others - it takes away our need to look at our own behaviors and it makes us feel better knowing there are people out there who are "worse" than we are. As long as there is room below us on our moral measuring stick, we aren't "so bad", are we?

How many of us have said, out loud or to ourselves, "I may only make $10 an hour, but at least I'm not flipping burgers at McDonald's. I may be a month behind in my mortgage, but at least my house isn't in foreclosure. I may have to eat Ramen noodles, but at least I'm not going to a food bank. I may drive a 10-year old car, but at least I'm not riding the bus. I may be in an unhappy marriage, but at least I'm not physically abused." We feel OK about ourselves as long as we can still find someone "below" us on that moral measuring stick. And if we can't find someone below us, we'll work diligently, chipping away at the self-esteem of others, until we can get them feeling a little less confident about themselves.

Again and again we justify where we are in relationship to those we deem as "less than." What if we did a little less of that and instead measured ourselves based on ... well ... our own potential and character? What if we looked harder at where we could be, rather than where we think we are in relation to others? What if we cared more and turned away less? What if we were more honest about our own shortcomings and less quick to point out the shortcomings of others? What if we offered an encouraging word rather than a judgmental thought? What if we were selfless rather than selfish? What if?

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The Begining of the Story

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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.

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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 ...

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Why Oh Why?

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Yesterday's secret was one I really thought I'd never share on the blog. I thought it was a well hidden secret - a secret that would be only mine until the end of time - although I did "confess" to a fellow blogger when he posted a story on his blog (thank you Ro, you were indirectly a motivator for my own accountability). Clearly, my secret didn't stay just with me.

This post will be uncomfortable for many of you. You won't understand. It will make even less sense than most of what I've posted in the past. It doesn't make sense to me when I think logically about it, but in the moment, it makes perfect sense, and it gives immediate relief.

During stepdaughter's (14) visit two weeks ago, the subject of cutting came up at the dinner table (yes, we still eat family dinners at the dinner table at least 4 nights/week). When something like this happens, my mom-dar (radar of the mom variety) goes into full alert mode. Not because I am worried about being "discovered," but because I've learned that kids often bring up difficult topics as a way to open a discussion regarding something they may be experiencing.

Stepdaughter shared with us that a girl at her school was hospitalized for cutting. She seemed to want to understand what had happened, but husband dismissed her conversation by saying, "People who do that just want attention. Don't give it to her." In his defense, this is a difficult topic to talk about - especially if you don't understand it. I didn't push the issue as the shame I felt increased at least 10-fold in response to his comments. Although attention can be a motivation for cutting, that isn't usually the case. Opening up to stepdaughter during that conversation would have meant a HUGE risk for me - and I wasn't ready to go there.

Saturday, again at the dinner table, I got a bit careless. I wear long sleeves inside the house, but it was warm this weekend and I pushed those long sleeves up to my elbows. Stepdaughter was sitting in a position where she caught a glimpse of my arm and asked, "What are those marks on your arm?" When I tried to dismiss it with, "Just scratches from the cat," (by the way, this is one of the more common "explanations" for marks from cutting) stepdaughter replied, "They sure are in straight lines and don't look like scratches." Long, uncomfortable silence, then I changed the subject. No one pushed it any farther.

I'm not sure how to explain to a 14 year old why I self-injure (it is difficult for me to type "cut" - it even sounds shameful and crazy) - I have great difficulty putting into words where I am emotionally at that point.

This happens when I am overwhelmed - to a state of frenzied anxiety - by my feelings. Usually, these are feelings of severe rejection, anger or self-loathing. When I cut, I can make the pain tangible. I can see it and feel it on the "outside" where I can deal with it. When I am in that emotional state, I have a cognitive sense that what I am doing is very wrong and "sick", but in the moment, I don't care. I do not feel intense physical pain, but I do feel an immediate emotional relief. Afterward, I feel extreme shame, but am much more emotionally even. The payoff is worth it.

Like many of you, I associate this kind of behavior with people you find locked away in padded cells - those in mental institutions on suicide watch - not with a 44-year old, educated, "successful" woman. An important thing to understand is that this is not about wanting to end my life. On the contrary, it is often the thing that keeps me from wanting to end my life.

What I know is that I am not alone, but that there are much healthier ways to deal with those overwhelming emotions, and I am working towards that. I don't expect anyone to understand this - hell, I barely understand it on a good day - but hopefully, hearing my story will give you a better understanding should you ever be in a position where you are touched by self-injury in some way.

If you are one who self-injures, I would encourage you to get help - to tell someone. If you aren't in a place where you are ready to do that face to face, S.A.F.E. ALTERNATIVES® has a toll free number - 800-DONTCUT.

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*EDIT* My initial instinct this morning was to close down comments on this post, just as I did yesterday. I really wasn't sure I was ready for the feedback - the chance of hearing that I was nothing more than an attention whore who does little more than attempt to evoke pity from my readers. I know that most of you would never even consider such a thing, but I guarantee you there are some reading this who are far more judgmental and far less understanding.

Any doubt I had about the decision to open comments was was completely erased when Biscuit followed my post with her own - "to wash away the rage" It would have been so much easier for her to just identify with my post and move on, but instead she posted her own story. Please - go take a moment and read Biscuit's story.

I will never be able to put into words how much it means to me that she took this risk. Thank you sweetie!

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Sunday Secret

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Some people hide their emotions, some express them, I etch mine to remember forever. This is about control, and lack of impulse control - but more so, it's about feeling, and not feeling. It is not about attention seeking. It is not about dying. It is not a cry for help. And it does not mean that I am crazy. It is a physical reminder of the intensity of my shame and inability to deal well with overwhelming emotion. Friday night, I came face to face with this shame when step daughter, in front of husband and Cam, asked about it. I lied. I know she knows I lied. It was the first time anyone has ever asked.

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