Despite still not eating properly (I just don't seem to be hungry at all, although it's having horrendous effects on my digestive system, not wanting to go into too much detail) I actually think I'm coming out of my bad few weeks. My mood just seems to have lifted, and I don't know what's caused it but I'm not complaining.
The only problem with this is that I always go through these cycles, and never end up getting help for it. When I go through a bad phase I decide to go see a counsellor, then by the time I get round to it I'm feeling better. I know I should still probably go, it would be better for me in the long run, but I just don't have the motivation to face my intense fear when I'm feeling better. I don't even know how I would begin to talk about my problems with a counsellor right now. I could start with my self harm I suppose, but I haven't cut in weeks, despite how desperate I've been to. I suppose now is a good opportunity to talk about it.
I started self harming when I was seventeen. Oddly enough this was when I'd just started coming out the worst of my depression between the ages of eleven and fiteen, so it seems strange at first that I would start then. But I think there are two reasons for this. Being seventeen was a pretty bad year for me - I broke up with my boyfriend who I was entirely emotionally dependent on in a pretty heartbreaking way, my grades at school plummeted (I'd always been quite a good student) and I was still struggling (and not succeeding) to fit in with my peers at school. And the second reason is, I simply don't think I had ever heard of self harm before then.
It's hard to pinpoint the exact first moment I discovered self harm, my memories have become a bit of a haze. That summer I went on holiday with a group of friends, and the boys were obsessed with buying and collecting knives. Not in a thuggish way, they weren't like that, they just liked the decorative ones, and the knives were all about as sharp as a dinner knife anyway. In the end they convinced me to buy a pink flick knife, I think they thought there was some poetic irony in it. Later on that summer, I watched
Thirteen with my best friend for the first time, which is still my favourite film even now. I have no idea what my exact thought processes were which led me to it, all I know is that I decided I wanted to try and cut myself with my pink blade.
The knife wasn't sharp enough at all of course, but it was enough for a few scratches, and it was enough to get me hooked. For the next four years I self harmed with varying frequency - when I first began it was once every few days, but at one point I went six months without it. My weapon of choice was nail scissors - enough to leave scratches and give me enough of a release, but not enough to draw blood. Ultimately I was too squeamish to be a "proper" cutter, and I told myself that meant I had it under control.
My current two best friends were concerned, but I told them that I'd never drawn blood, that it was all under control. Everyone does things that are bad for them in order to cope - some drink, some smoke, I cut, what's the problem?
This was until a few weeks ago. I'd split up with my boyfriend, and that night he'd told me he didn't want to get back together. I'd spent the night drinking and attempting to have a good night with my friends, but I couldn't fight off how devastated I was. When I got home I cut my arms with a razor for the first time. It genuinely terrified me, and made me realise how little control I do really have over it. I was completely convinced that I would never, ever cut myself deep enough to draw blood, and now I've crossed that boundary I have to accept that enough is enough. So I've quit, and amazingly I haven't gone back. I'm still desperate to, but with willpower and a restriction on my alcohol intake, I haven't given in. I can't promise I won't ever go back to it in future, but for now I'm proud of myself.
