I am 47. One day when I was 14 I was hiding in the bathroom. I was very anxious and trapped feeling. I was looking at all the stuff in the bathroom pantry, trying to distract myself when I saw a pack of razor blades. For no particular reason I picked them up and took one out. I drew it lightly across the inside of my forearm, making a thin, light scratch. It slowly filled with blood. I was amazed when the anxious, sick feeling immediately receded.i scratched myself twice more before putting the razor blades down. I used a wad of toilet paper to clean away the few drops of blood. When the coast was clear, I went to my room and crawled into bed and slept for the first time in days. After that, I went back to the bathroom pantry whenever I needed a break from overwhelming feelings. I bought my own blades with babysitting money, and carried them with me constantly.It started taking more and deeper cuts to get the removed, numb feeling I craved. I did this all thru high school. The only people who noticed were some classmates. I really thought the marks were invisible. Then I started working in a childcare center. They noticed immediately and were very concerned. I was preparing to move into my own apartment, and was terrified I would be fired. Instead, my boss insisted I go into counseling. There I learned this behavior had a name " cutting" . Therapy really didn't seem to help in this regard. Instead it made me more anxious, I left her office and went and cut quite frequently. It became my go to method of dealing with things, big and small. I got where if I cut, I needed stitches. This led to my first hospitalization. They were ugly to me, accusing me of being manipulative, saying I cut for attention. I found this humiliating, and it angered me. I went to great lengths to conceal my cutting. I had started cutting my upper arms, stomach and breasts so no one would see it. The unfairness of it sent me into s bad place. I had already located a piece of wire that was coming off my window, and I used that to make deep scratches on my hands, since that was all I could reach with wire still attached to window. Staff noticed them at lunch, and searched me to find what sharp I had used. When they couldn't find one, they ******** me, put me in a single hospital gown and sent me to isolation. It was like hiding in the bathroom all over again. I flipped out and started banging my head on concrete brick wall of seclusion room. They came in and put me in restraints. I kept fighting them. When they left I slowly wriggled my arms loose, then undid the rest of the restraints. They came back and put them back on me. Wash hair, rinse and repeat. That cycle lasted for hours. After two injections of antipsychotic med, mixed with Ativan , I dropped off to sleep. This was the first of many trips to the looney bin...I have done therapy for most of my adult life. I learned other coping scales, some that even work sometimes. I just know when the **** hits the fan, instead of reaching for someone to talk about it with, I will grab a razor blade instead. Now I am 47. I live in a nursing home, and I have since I was 40. I had degenerative disc disease. It made me trip over my leg that had foot drop, and I blew t-4 thru t-6. The blown discs confused my spinal cord, giving me a spinal cord injury. I have continued to struggle with the urge to cut. The director of nurses at this facility likes me. She has kept me thru acting out twice. If I pick up a razor blade again, I am toast. That will be it as far as my staying here .
Doubter03 Doubter03
46-50, F
May 19, 2012