"I cut myself, burned, banged my head against the wall": How I struggle with self-harm
Selfharm, or self-harm, - This is intentional harm to your body. This type of auto-aggression includes a wide range of actions: from shallow cuts to ingestion of toxic substances. Most of the time, selfarms are not suicidal intentions, but the desire to get rid of heartache, fear, anger. Elizaveta Eremina told us about her experience (her name was changed at the request of the heroine).
Pain and euphoria
It is difficult to say for sure where self-destruction originates. Usually this is a whole bunch of reasons, as in my case. People who do harm to themselves are only at first glance similar - in fact, each of them has its own story. Selfharm can take on various guises, which most often make themselves felt in childhood.
I do not remember parents well: they worked a lot. More often I spent time with my grandmother. She didn’t beat me, no, although she threatened me, but she verbally attacked constantly. She considered me "ugly", "unnecessarily" shy, "soft" and scolded for everything, even good behavior. She said that I should be bold, grasp, accurate, and was sure that without becoming such, I would not achieve success in life. Only recently, she admitted that she suffered from depressive disorder and was treated by a psychiatrist. Now I understand that Grandma took out on her frustration, but then to be alone with her was a nightmare, penetrating to the bone, as I looked at myself with her eyes.
Constant criticism has led to sensitivity, coupled with isolation. Parents treated this as a feature, not a problem. They, like my few friends, did not suspect what was going on inside me. Children and adults seemed to me very aggressive and angry, but at the same time - better than me. It was as if they understood the rules of the game unknown to me, and I am an alien who accidentally fell to Earth. Now it seems to me that if I were less closed and did not hold in myself an inner pain, my life would have taken a different course.
I was small and, of course, did not analyze my actions, and I dumped my scratched hands on a cat. It was physically painful, but the internal tension went into the background.
In early childhood, I began experimenting with my pain threshold. I was clumsy, sometimes injuries appeared by chance, sometimes not, but it never occurred to my family and kindergarten teachers that I was capable of such a thing. I tied up the fingers or fingers on the cords until blood stopped flowing to them. I put my fingers in boiling water or a heated lighter in my father’s car. I was very small and, of course, did not analyze my actions, and I dumped my scratched hands on the poor cat. I remember very well the feeling of reloading. It was physically painful, but the internal stress, criticism, and embarrassing situations experienced during the day faded into the background.
By the age of five, I began to communicate with other children and the situation leveled out a bit, not counting accidents or near accidents: falls, bloodied knees, fractures, sometimes I beat myself and tore apart deep wounds. To all this, I experienced a double feeling: pain and euphoria. I did not know that it was not normal. Scratch wines still hung on the cat.
Loss of control
The school made its own adjustments: friends appeared, abilities developed for mathematics, languages, and dances. Thanks to this, the junior classes passed without selfharma. The nightmare is back at puberty. More than once, parents, young people, friends took the word from me that I would never do any harm to myself, although I warned that I could not keep my word that it was stronger than me. So it happened: I broke down, I was accused of infantilism and selfishness. I can not say that I was an outcast, rather I was perceived as a crank, a freak. Attention boys repelled me, I was sure that I did not deserve it. I often changed the environment. It seemed to me that if I started with a clean slate, with new friends, my life would change. But this did not happen, and basically I preferred loneliness.
I hated changing my body, as well as my whole body. I was haunted by perfectionism. She also caused wild anxiety and, on the contrary, kept away perfectionism. I wanted to be perfect in everything: as slim and infinitely intelligent as possible. I was blindly focused only on the weights and assessments, both school and others.
I hated myself for every mistake, the slightest mistake. At first, I stuck to stress. Then, on the contrary, she punished herself with hunger strikes.
I was striving for some kind of ideal picture, which is impossible to achieve - after all, we are not museum pieces, but then I did not understand this yet. Becoming "perfect" was the only way to love yourself. Therefore, I moved to the best school in the city and fearlessly jumped into the maelstrom of mathematics and computer technology. All my hobbies went into the background. During the exhausting struggle to rise “at least” to the level of Lobachevsky, I lost control of self-harm: more often, more, stronger, more diverse.
I hated myself for every mistake, the slightest mistake. At first, I stuck to stress. Then, on the contrary, she punished herself with hunger strikes. Bad grades, the lack of a proper level of self-realization, social mini-catastrophes, be it an unsuccessful statement of thought or being late - all this meant that I could not cope, which means I did not deserve food. For me, bulimia was self-chemism, not an attempt to hold weight. During the nausea, I felt like a bursting gallbladder, and internal pain was associated with its contents, which flowed out of me. It became easier, but at the same time my conscience tormented me, because so many people are starving. I had five to six bouts of vomiting a day. I did not notice any problems myself, the grades remained excellent, only I was cold all the time. Then I finally lost touch with my body, did not even feel the temperature, and could leave the house in one dress, because there is no snow, and what about the fact that it is near zero? In the end, I almost completely refused to eat and weighed forty-two kilograms. After that, my parents took me to a psychiatrist.
Nothing to be ashamed of
The first experience with psychiatry was unsuccessful. At the reception I was not alone, but with my father, so there could be no talk of frankness. Instead of new sessions, the doctor prescribed medications, the side effect of which was increased appetite. I ate, but I could not keep such an amount of food in me and again began to induce vomiting. The vicious circle is closed: punishing myself, I became a victim of bulimia, remorse worsened the matter. After the next attack, I decided to punish myself and at the same time make a mark for memory. I sliced shallowly on the left hand with a knife. The sight of blood, along with pain, caused an unexpected feeling of pleasure. I dare say nirvana. At that moment I promised myself that this was the first and last time.
I certainly did not keep the promise. After the first incident I could not be stopped. Soon the wounds became deeper, and the days without self-harm could be counted on the fingers of one hand. After each bulimic attack, I cut myself, burned with cigarettes, gave slaps, beat my head against the wall, got drunk, swallowed tranquilizers, or all together. All this transformed mental pain into physical pain and seemed to reboot the brain. It seemed to me that this is all a strange experimental film, made by students, while watching which does not leave a feeling: what a trash, because you could shoot better. The feeling of unreality of what is happening is dangerous because it relieves you of responsibility for actions.
My self-destructive way gained new trajectories: spontaneous sex with strangers, the choice of partners abyuzerov - all for the sake of escape from yourself, obsessive thoughts and psychological pain
With age, my behavior became more dangerous, and everything was unbearable to be alone with myself. Due to too close relations with the restroom, I was late everywhere, or did not come to school, work, meetings at all. When I felt a desire to harm myself at work or in the company of friends, I went to the toilet to induce vomiting or to scratch places invisible under clothing. My relatives worried about me, but I could not stop. If I had rewound time back and went to a psychiatrist, how much time and health would be saved. Two years later, the self-medicine on hands did not have a living place, vomiting was with blood, and the weight dropped to thirty-six kilograms. I already knew that I had problems, but again I was ashamed to ask for professional help or to open up to my friends. The choice was between death and going to the doctor. At that time I had a beloved man and, therefore, a motivation to live.
As it turned out, a psychiatrist didn’t come across people like me for the first time and there was nothing to be ashamed of. But I lived with illusions: I thought that all I had to do was swallow the medicine, click my fingers, and then I would be cured. When this did not happen, my self-destructive path acquired new trajectories. Spontaneous sex with strangers, the choice of partners abyuzerov - all for the sake of escape from itself, obsessive thoughts and anxieties, psychological pain. At some point, self-medicine has also become a slow way of suicide. In the balance of death, I was countless times, but I was always stopped by love for my parents. I am very grateful to them, if not for their support, I would not tell this story now.
Unfinished fight
It is difficult to say whether I enjoyed all of this, or I was just unaware that you could live differently. I only encountered a calm and measured life in the cinema. The more they humiliated me (I never questioned criticism), the less I had enough to cheer up: a half-smile, a kind word, stroking the back. That is all that is the norm in a healthy relationship.
Over the past five years I have been in psychiatric clinics in Russia and in Europe several times. Self-healing is treated equally, combining therapy and medication. I have periods of remission, but they are short. An embarrassing social situation and subjective failures in studies, work, or when someone pays attention to my scars and accuses me of infantilism usually cause self-harm. Now I am taking medication and trying to get rid of my inner pain through physical activity. When I want to hurt myself, I wring out, squat or go for a walk, and the desire for a while disappears. It also helps keeping a diary to filter emotions. So I assess the situation soberly, from the side. Yes, I have not completely recovered, but I am not yet ready to suffer a defeat, although falls still occur. In my struggle, I have advanced far and believe that I will win this war.
Photo: photolink - stock.adobe.com (1, 2)
