TWLOHA
Something very personal for this family.
Years ago, when my older daughter was 17, she came to me with a troubling situation. A young man, a friend of hers, was struggling terribly with inner demons, and had begun cutting. He was going progressively deeper and had started sending her photos of the wounds. She was torn...protect her friend and try to help him on her own or seek help and risk losing him. We talked and I firmly stated that at the rate he was going, she was going to lose him anyway, better to have him alive and angry at her than him dead and her angry with herself. I was seeking for.the route that would provide fewer demons, ultimately.
She, and his best friend(her boyfriend at the time), chose to talk. They went to the bishop of the young man's ward...a risky move as his father was a counselor in the same, and shared what they knew. Showed the pictures. Cried. Left feeling hopeful.
The.bishop.did call the young man in, and he denied everything. The bishop let him. And it continued.
Long story shortened, young man is still alive, and hopefully doing well. I try to check on him as often as possible...he and daughter are NOT friends. But she has no regrets. Had he died while she held his secret, well...that scenario doesn't need fleshed out any further.
She, and his best friend(her boyfriend at the time), chose to talk. They went to the bishop of the young man's ward...a risky move as his father was a counselor in the same, and shared what they knew. Showed the pictures. Cried. Left feeling hopeful.
The.bishop.did call the young man in, and he denied everything. The bishop let him. And it continued.
Long story shortened, young man is still alive, and hopefully doing well. I try to check on him as often as possible...he and daughter are NOT friends. But she has no regrets. Had he died while she held his secret, well...that scenario doesn't need fleshed out any further.
It continues.
A few months later, I began to notice some very simple, subtle things. Razor blades. Exacto knives. Bobby pins with the protective ends gone, sanded sharp. Nothing overt, just here and there. We always had the stuff around, I did mosaics, glass work, blown beads, etc and sold them, a business I had at the time. She would occasionally help me out when I had a large order due or show.
But this was different.
And I knew it.
My own girl, who I had been watching very closely, since the age of 2, actually, was cutting.
Now, you may ask why I was watching her. I'll get to that.
Later.
Later.
Other than watch her for signs that it was growing into an obsession, and talk with her about her friend, offering words for "him", I chose to not confront. There were so many other things going on in the family, and with her, at the time, that I deemed it the wisest route, unless it began to progress.
Fast forward 5-6 yrs. The girl's father and I are separated, divorce papers filed, finalizing eminent...I begin to see the same evidence. Younger daughter, younger than older had been, clumsy in attempts to hide, struggling mightily with the situation, nightmares, tears, panic beginning, introversion starts, sleeping with me...and sleeves.
And I know.
My heart breaks.
Her, however, I confront.
And I know.
My heart breaks.
Her, however, I confront.
She's a different creature altogether.
We talk, she denies.
We talk. She admits.
We talk, she says she'll stop.
I lay out for her what the next steps will be, if it continues.
And we go on. Can you see what happens next?
It doesn't stop. Her arms heal, she begins to cut her abdomen and inner thigh. I, always watching, see what I think is a slightly red mark and demand to see. She gives in, with the very real threat of me dropping her to the ground against her will if she doesn't, and there it is. Not just cuts, but words.
And we go on. Can you see what happens next?
It doesn't stop. Her arms heal, she begins to cut her abdomen and inner thigh. I, always watching, see what I think is a slightly red mark and demand to see. She gives in, with the very real threat of me dropping her to the ground against her will if she doesn't, and there it is. Not just cuts, but words.
Worthless.
Reject.
Ugly.
Die.
All those words, her pain turned inward, refusing to be angry at the people who let her down, owning the failure that wasn't hers to own.
I almost threw up, right there. I didn't, but a part of me took those cuts into my heart, those words...
and I let that part of me die. Just let it die, for my girl. As if that could take her pain and make it right, or better, somehow. I know, it doesn't make sense, but the truth of these things is just that it doesn't make sense. And that is what the struggle is all about.
My beautiful, precious girl, my reason for living, attempting to find reason out of the madness, her tiny body too small to contain that pain.
Well. I lost it.
I put her up against the wall and in her face told her, very clearly, firmly, steadily, in a low voice, almost a growl, told the part of her making the choice, to stop hurting my baby.
I almost threw up, right there. I didn't, but a part of me took those cuts into my heart, those words...
and I let that part of me die. Just let it die, for my girl. As if that could take her pain and make it right, or better, somehow. I know, it doesn't make sense, but the truth of these things is just that it doesn't make sense. And that is what the struggle is all about.
My beautiful, precious girl, my reason for living, attempting to find reason out of the madness, her tiny body too small to contain that pain.
Well. I lost it.
I put her up against the wall and in her face told her, very clearly, firmly, steadily, in a low voice, almost a growl, told the part of her making the choice, to stop hurting my baby.
That was MY girl, and she had no right to hurt her, to hurt me, to take one more thing from me, or from her.
And stared her down.
Then, shaking, we both dropped to the floor, held each other, and sobbed.
I followed through on what I had said was going to happen. Therapists, daily full body checks for months, all sharp items out of the house...made cooking and sewing a little complicated, especially as I was still working as a theatre costumer at that time. But, it was what needed to happen.
I still occasionally check her, in times of high stress. She isn't allowed to argue. I won't have it. It doesn't happen often, the checking, just often enough.
Then, shaking, we both dropped to the floor, held each other, and sobbed.
I followed through on what I had said was going to happen. Therapists, daily full body checks for months, all sharp items out of the house...made cooking and sewing a little complicated, especially as I was still working as a theatre costumer at that time. But, it was what needed to happen.
I still occasionally check her, in times of high stress. She isn't allowed to argue. I won't have it. It doesn't happen often, the checking, just often enough.
My relief when I find nothing...I can't describe how beautiful that feeling is.
Many people don't understand cutting. It's difficult to explain.
I do try, because there shouldn't be condemnation from the outside.
There are times when the emotional pain is so deep, so overpowering, so all encompassing, that it takes the mind and the body into it as well. The pain throbs, it drops you to the floor. You scream, but nothing comes out. You bleed emotionally, you're hemorrhaging, but there's no relief. And you suddenly take a turn in your mind, in your desperation for It. To. End.
Not suicide.
Not yet.
Not suicide.
Not yet.
You're not quite there yet, there's still a strange mixture of both hope and self-loathing.
And you think of the physical pain that comes with injury. How very focused it is. How cleansing it is, in a way, as the blood and pain mingle and exit...And the relief when it stops. Just for a small while, before the reality of healing has to begin. And more importantly...
It's your doing.
Your choice.
You have the control, over the depth of the pain, the length of the bleed, the frequency it happens.
That works on you, and it puts all of the other shit into that box, for that moment.
It solves nothing.
But it feels like it does.
And then, you don't see anything wrong with it.
And you think of the physical pain that comes with injury. How very focused it is. How cleansing it is, in a way, as the blood and pain mingle and exit...And the relief when it stops. Just for a small while, before the reality of healing has to begin. And more importantly...
It's your doing.
Your choice.
You have the control, over the depth of the pain, the length of the bleed, the frequency it happens.
That works on you, and it puts all of the other shit into that box, for that moment.
It solves nothing.
But it feels like it does.
And then, you don't see anything wrong with it.
Somehow, it becomes highly logical and your thinking takes a form of rational objectivity that has been eluding you for a long while, but which is necessary for survival. The mind knows that. And it will seek any route possible to achieve anything that remotely resembles it, real or not.
You learn about wound care, you learn the tricks to hide, because it isn't acceptable in society and you do know that.
You learn about wound care, you learn the tricks to hide, because it isn't acceptable in society and you do know that.
It becomes your gift to yourself, your special "you" time, just as any other disorder does. Which, as an aside, is why it's important to watch someone in recovery for signs of eating disorders, among others.
Does that help you understand?
Does that help you understand?
Maybe not. It takes being there, truly being there, to understand.
It had been many, many years, for me.
But in that year after the divorce, even with all the therapy I was doing...I was severely tempted to return, so many times. I knew what it was about, though, and I was able to resist, redirect, and replace. The good thing about me, when I learn...I learn.
Someone said, women seem to have an off/on switch...they just forget and walk away.
No.
I haven't forgotten anything. I remember it all. I remember the happy times. I remember the dream. I remember...everything. The good, and the bad.
It had been many, many years, for me.
But in that year after the divorce, even with all the therapy I was doing...I was severely tempted to return, so many times. I knew what it was about, though, and I was able to resist, redirect, and replace. The good thing about me, when I learn...I learn.
Someone said, women seem to have an off/on switch...they just forget and walk away.
No.
I haven't forgotten anything. I remember it all. I remember the happy times. I remember the dream. I remember...everything. The good, and the bad.
I still feel like I failed, at something very important to me. I'm family wired. I've always been that way, since I was a little girl. A family of my own...that mattered, hugely.
If I had loved more. If I had given more. If I had figured out how to be even less of me than I had already become and more of whatever it would have taken to keep it together...but then, it wouldn't have been real, and I would have died. Literally. I was dying as it was.
And I think he knew that. In fact, I am certain of it. Perhaps not on a conscious level, but as I've said, it was the greatest gift that he ever gave to me. He gave me a chance at living as myself.
So...even though I wouldn't have ever left, even though I would have chosen something else to happen,
So...even though I wouldn't have ever left, even though I would have chosen something else to happen,
I had to let go.
I wanted to stop existing...I wanted the pain to just go away, but it wouldn't. And so the struggle of many years ago came to visit and sit beside me for awhile.
But I had to choose life. I had to, because that is who I am. When I faced taking my life and chose then that I wouldn't shrink from life that way, a coward...I made that choice for the whole of my life. I put more into deciding to live, back then, than I had into deciding to die. Anyone who has been there, understands that statement.
Living, it's for the brave. And maybe the insane.
I want to experience a happy ending for myself and I cannot do that if I'm dead, or living in the past.
I can't look back.
I can't look back.
I choose to gift myself with the future.
Maybe it won't work.
Maybe it won't work.
There is that.
True.
But you know what?
I bet it will.
I said to myself, and say to myself when I have dark nights and feel sadness and fear wash over me, making me small...
But you know what?
I bet it will.
I said to myself, and say to myself when I have dark nights and feel sadness and fear wash over me, making me small...
Love, life...it's always worth the chance. It's where healing is. Let another teach you how to love yourself, to forgive yourself, to believe in yourself through the loving of them and taking the chance.
Trust that they aren't dumb.
Trust that they know something about you that even you don't know.
It goes both ways.
It happens.
Anyway. I digress. That's not the point here.
This organization, To Write Love On Her Arms, is a cutting and suicide prevention group. They do amazing things, reaching thousands all the time. We support them, they were there for us.
And I will always be there for others who are fighting this fight, even if only by supporting this group and getting the word out about them.
Anyway. I digress. That's not the point here.
This organization, To Write Love On Her Arms, is a cutting and suicide prevention group. They do amazing things, reaching thousands all the time. We support them, they were there for us.
And I will always be there for others who are fighting this fight, even if only by supporting this group and getting the word out about them.
It's been a hard road this year, living up to this determination to open up and share these things, these secrets, to be more vulnerable. But it was time, to try, at least. Why go through these things if I can't use my lessons for good, to help others who may be looking for something? That would be the tragedy, going through hell itself for no reason. I don't believe in that.
I have chosen to expand my gifts, because that IS what they are, they aren't from me but they come out of me, of intuition, of energy, of reading the unreadable, of giving those parts of myself to those who want them, to put good that was born out of the bad into the world, into people that I care deeply for.
God damn. Let someone in. Trust them, trust one someone, and let them the fuck in.
I have to let someone in eventually, if this is going to work. The right someone. The someone who wants in. I suppose I'll know. I suppose they'll let me know.
Anyway again...
Check it out.
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