My Untold Story of Self-Harm
Since I wrote my first blog post telling the world about my battle with depression and the multiple times I tried to end my life, I’ve tried to be as transparent with my mental illness as I could be. I believe the only way to end the silent killer of suicide is for us to talk about it like we do any other illness.
Yet, as vulnerable as I’ve tried to be, I’ve been hiding. I’ve failed to stay true to myself out of fear, the fear of others’ perception of me.
I failed because I did what depression makes you want to do, hide.
Even as I write this, I’m shaking…I don’t think I’ve been this nervous about writing something in a long time, but that’s how I know I need to put this into the world.
So, here’s the story that 2 people in the entire world know even happened.
Here’s my story of self-harm…
In October of 2019, I moved my life to Los Angeles; I packed up 21 years to move from a city I was born and raised to a city where I knew nobody.
I went through a lot of emotions during that move, but the one that I suppressed and kept buried was the loneliness I’ve experienced since moving here. What frustrated me even more was knowing I wasn’t alone, my coworkers have poured out support for me, but I couldn’t shake this feeling of absolutely loneliness.
I was living in the past and that left me feeling numb in the present.
Only as I’ve taken my mental health more seriously and learned to live more in the present have I learned that I still have emotions; I’ve just masked them with the feeling of nothing to hide from having to face them.
Unfortunately by masking them I created this underlying desire for acceptance and to be needed by those I did have in my life. I thought if I was numb to my emotions that at least I could foster some type of connection that would make up for the lack of feelings I had.
The issue was, I wasn’t living in the present moment — I was seeking this feeling of being needed back in Dallas with people who are no longer in my life.
This all left me feeling even more isolated, more numb. It felt like no matter the situation, I didn’t feel anything; good news didn’t make me happy and bad news didn’t make me sad.
It felt like I was watching the world unfold from the outside, I saw people I care about hurt, but I couldn’t hurt anymore. I saw people I love celebrate, but I couldn’t find joy in my heart to celebrate with them.
This has been a struggle for a few years now, but it’s escalated recently.
I never thought I would self-harm, in fact, I’ve told myself I’d never let it come to that, but that’s how strong mental illnesses can be, no matter how strong you think you are they will break you down.
And earlier this year it became too much for me to try and continue just dealing with.
I wanted to feel something, anything. I just needed to know that I could still feel hurt, because if I could still feel that pain, then maybe I can still feel happy…
So I went in my bathroom, opened my drawer and took out a razor blade.
I sat on the edge of the bathtub for a few minutes before taking the blade to my wrist.
It was only a few cuts, but for those few seconds I felt, I felt pain, and to me that was all I wanted. I wanted to just know that I could still feel something.
The issue was, this became my outlet. Cutting myself became the thing I did when I felt numb, because I knew it would bring me some type of relief, if even only for a few seconds.
Before I knew it, I ran out of space on my wrist from all the cuts I made.
In that moment I realized how far this had gone. That night when I realized I had made cuts on top of cuts just to feel that pain, it all came crashing down on me.
I opened the suicide letter I wrote years ago, which I read every once in a while as a reminder of how far I’ve come, to decide if I felt like that was how I wanted my life to be remembered. I wanted to make sure I was 100% confident that letter was all I wanted my time here on earth to come down to, if I was okay with being remembered by that letter.
The answer is no. I wasn’t okay with my entire life being remembered by the letter I wrote on the night I couldn’t take it anymore. The letter I wrote when I thought there was no more light for me in this world.
It’s been some time since I last cut myself. I’ve gotten help and am learning to feel again. Learning to experience my emotions, to feel them, and to be okay with them.
I don’t share this looking for attention or sympathy for that matter.
I share this hoping that the person who thinks about picking up the blade today or swallowing the bottle of pills sees this. I share this hoping that the person who needs to see this, does, and knows that they are enough. That you are enough, that it is okay to not be okay.
I share this as a reminder of the silent battles people deal with every single day of their life. As a reminder to never judge from the outside, because you don’t know what’s going on behind closed doors.
I share this because I have the platform and voice to do so, and until all those fighting the good fight in their battles against their mental illness are able to use their voice I will continue to use mine.
You are not alone.
Suicide Prevention Hotline: 1–800–273–8255
