Life as a UCer and Recovering Self-Harmer

The gastroenterologist came into my hospital room. I was flaring badly, and on a suicide watch, because I was in so much pain that I made the remark that I just wanted to die. I was left in my room for hours alone with no roommate, my door shut, curtain pulled, with cords dangling from the blinds, IV, TV, and the nurse call button. The whole situation was a joke. Without even trying, I could count at least ten different ways to kill myself.

He briefly asked me about my symptoms. Maroon stools, going only thirty times a day now, and the stomach cramps only slightly better. Vicodin was not cutting it, and I wanted my dilaudid back. Without warning, he suddenly lifted the leg of my pajama pants to take my blood pressure in my feet. I recoiled, but not before he saw it- dozens of cuts and scratches on my leg, "rette mich" (rescue me) carved into my calf. He gave me a quizzical look. "I self-injure when I'm upset or stressed." I was reddening furiously, humiliated that he discovered my secret.

He patted my cuts and I winced at the sharp sting. "Such pretty legs; what a disgrace!" he laughed, smiled and covered my leg again after taking my pulse.

Disgrace. I am a disgrace. Disgrace, disgrace, disgrace... The word repeated in my head over and over. I just smiled and laughed with him, to mask my disgrace. When he left, I cried into my pillow, more embarrassed than crapping myself in front of a stranger at coffee shop. I wanted to self-harm again, but I decided that I wouldn't allow a jerk to feed into my problem.

I started self-injuring since I was eight years old. That was the year my grandma, who was like a second mom to me, died after a courageous but hopeless fight with stomach cancer. Devastated and  feeling that I needed to be strong and "suck up" my pain, I started scratching my legs with my fingernails to ease the heartbreak. When I was ten, I was badly bullied, and graduated to bits of broken plastic and glass. By thirteen, I had found a utility knife, stolen the blades, and my problem became more serious. By age fourteen, I had landed in the hospital twice for month-long stretches. I was treated for severe depression, social anxiety, self-harm, and several suicide attempts, oppositional defiant disorder, and constant suicidal ideation. A week before my fifteenth birthday, I ended up in a residential facility, where I stayed until a month before my sweet sixteen. Before residential, I didn't think I'd live past my sixteenth birthday, and I certainly didn't think I'd live past my eighteenth. I was risky with the blade, and didn't really care if I died by accident.

I learned a lot during my time at residential. I wish I could say the same for the hospital, but a hospital is a place to go when you want to be triggered, learn tips from other self-harmers, engage in sexual activity, and deal drugs under tables. A hospital is not a safe place like it ought to be.  Residential, on the other hand, taught me it was ok to feel. It was ok to cry and worry and be sad. I didn't have to be numb all the time, or turn to the blade to just feel something, anything. They taught me other coping skills I could use, like journaling,  music, and opening up to others, a huge step for me. A wise counselor there told me that the point of treatment was to teach other, healthy coping skills. Self harm would forever be a coping skill for me, but if I could gain enough healthy coping skills, self harm did not have to be first in my tool box, and someday, it would be at the bottom of my list. I was astounded that the woman understood that my battle is life-long. The urges and thoughts will always be there. It was one of the first times someone showed compassion for a self-harmer, and I didn't know what to think.

My inflammatory bowel disease makes me hide. I am terrified of having an accident, no matter how many times I've already done so. I am terrified someone will think I am gross or ugly because of my disease. The emotional trauma of having this disease exacerbates my need to self harm. The cruelty I've met in the health field surrounding my mental illness and self harming behaviors do nothing to make me feel better. I've had doctors refuse to let me use anything except Tylenol,  the rare Vicodin, and one patch of Lipoderm a day, when a pain team recommended two patches of Lipoderm, and a heckuva a lotta Vicodin, or something stronger, like morphine. When self-harmers go in to get stitches, doctors sometimes refuse anesthetic because "don't you want to feel pain?" I've had nurses be a lot more rough than needed to be with me, simply because I self-injure. They never say it, but you know the reason they treat you roughly and don't mind hurting you is because you already hurt yourself. To them, you are disgusting, selfish and enjoy pain like some sort of demented, sadistic monster.

When I first began bleeding, I went to my family doctor several times in the span of a year long first flare. She ignored my malnourishment, anemia, white blood cell count, bathroom urgency, blood loss and fatigue.  Instead, she told me that the problem was purely psychological  and I was only having panic attacks. After a year of going to her, she finally admitted me to a psychiatric ward. It was the first of many times of medical malpractice that I've faced having both physical and mental health issues. If you've read my past posts, you'll know the rest of the story- my colon was on the verge of perforation when I got there, and my family was told that I would quickly die if that happened. Because a doctor was so focused on my mental health, my colon and my physical health were allowed to spiral downward too far, and my bowels will never be normal again. You tell me how that's ok. You tell me that it's normal to bleed out your rectum when you have a panic attack. Yes, I was having panic attacks, but only because my bowels were bleeding badly, Dr. Google said I had colon cancer, and my family doctor, whom I trusted, wasn't helping me. Duh. (I really don't like this doctor. Hopefully I can forgive her someday.)

I don't like pain. I barely feel the cuts when I make them. I don't like the looks people give me when they see my scars. I don't like doctors ignoring my guts and only "helping" my emotional pain. (Help. Ha!) The truth is, I care for myself better than any psychologist or therapist can, with the exception of exactly two people out of the twenty or so I've seen over the years. I no longer open up to doctors or therapists about what I'm facing emotionally, because all they do is treat me roughly, and ignore my ulcerative colitis, which is now a main root of my self-injury, anxiety, and depression. They fail to see that in order to treat my emotional health, they must first treat my physical health. The two go hand in hand.

If you think self-injury is disgusting, take a step back. Self-injury is harming your body. So is drinking too much, eating too much or too little, drug use, or engaging in risky sexual behaviors. By doing those things, you are harming your body. Don't attack me for cutting my skin with a blade when you rot your liver, your teeth, or have sex with everyone you come across without using protection in the name of feeling good. You are no better than I. You just can't see beyond your own problems, and attack self-harmers because what we do is taboo, and what you do is not.

Self harm is an addiction. Self-harmers experience a high from the release of endorphin's when they self-injure. It is a tough, tough addiction to break. I've been trying to recover since I was fifteen years old, and I am now approaching my twenty-first birthday. I've come a long way, but I still have work to do, and it isn't easy. It's never been easy. Everywhere I go, I can create something to hurt myself with, and it stands out to me like a sore thumb. However, I've come a long way from the girl who used to self-injure every hour. I'm now mostly recovered and have very brief relapses a couple times a year.

March 1st is Self-Injury Awareness Day. March 3rd will mark my  four year anniversary of successfully leaving residential treatment. I hope that in the next couple of years, I can be completely self-harm free. It's been thirteen years too long already. The urge will always be there, but I will overcome my addiction, because I am stronger than blade.