Fighting the Temptation

So, like any classic certified nutcase, the following procedure ends with the most unfortunate mood swing.

50mg quetiapine + 0mg fluoxetine + PMS = certified nutcase waking up feeling awful.

I could probably help it if it were any other time of the month, to be honest. Today, I woke up and felt like cutting. By "cutting" I mean the typical trend among adolescent wannabes trying to draw attention to their individuality. For me, it's a release. I want to cut myself.

I WON'T DO IT, of course. I'm determined not to let this take me over. Having said that, it's always been a hard battle. In the beginning, I often lost. I have the scars to show it. Big, ugly pink ones and thin, pearly white ones. Scars that dent, scars that wrinkle, scars like ribbons of regret sewn into my flesh. But rather than notifying it as a losing battle and giving up any hope of survival, I feel lucky enough to have the ability to feel so over the moon I can taste paradise. An advantage to being bipolar - you know there's a flipside to the pain and despair.

It's not like self-harming has ever got me anywhere, either. Sure, it's a satisfying release, there's pain, there's the mutilation that my mind is craving, there's the splash of crimson perfection, there's the laceration of flawless precision, there's the catalyst - internal pain becomes external pain. Pain that will go away. But other than that, it's five minutes pleasure for a lifetime mark. Carry them around like a badge of honour, but it's not so honourable to others. People, of course, judge. Can you blame them? Self-mutilation is the art of a disturbed mind. And people fear what they don't understand. To you, it's a coping mechanism, no different than a stressed man at work nipping outside for a lung-plaguing cigarette. To everyone else, it's a striking sign for alarm. It's illogical, it's senseless - and you love it.

I've done it ever since I was thirteen. I think of that as an unwise and puerile age to start engaging in such a complex coping strategy. My reasons for doing it then were far more infantile than my reasons for doing it now. Had I known how much devastation and pointless heartache boys could cause you then, I probably wouldn't have bothered with it. But for a young girl who had no confidante or shoulder to cry on in the grip of pubescent agony, it was an easy way out. Small, shallow cuts at first, then deeper, slender ones - cut, cut, cut, slice, cut, slice - then the euphoria hit. A beautiful, natural high that relieved me of the pain of living for a few, precious moments. By fourteen, I was doing it every day. At fourteen, I attempted suicide.

If you've ever become addicted to a drug of some sort, you would understand. Cutting is just like that. You try it once, at the cost of one tiny portion of skin, and you feel better. Then you figure just one more time wouldn't hurt. Then one day, you're feeling stressed and you figure you'll just pitch one little scratch. That scratch becomes a wound. You know it's bad and at some point it will just lead to ruin, but in that state of euphoria and relief, you just don't care. So you grow a dependency on it. Every time you hurt inside, you know it's time to turn that hurt into real pain - a pain that people can understand, that people can see. The addiction is incredible, and can be wildly out of control.

Lucky for me, the cuts on my face and chest and legs healed over pretty effectively and you can hardly see them now. But towards the end, cutting just wasn't enough anymore. Nothing was enjoyable. Not even physical pain. Nothing good ever lasted. I decided I wanted out.

And I felt that way more than once - when I decided I had no other alternative but suicide. I've attempted it quite a number of times, in fact.

And through all this, what have I achieved?

A few dozen hospital stays, a few stitches and plenty of scars. That and a worried-sick family.

What hadn't changed in spite of all my efforts? A life of psychological hell.


Cutting doesn't make your problems disappear. It can relieve you of really difficult emotions for a while - yes, definitely - but in the end, those emotions come back, and trying to cut it out of your system, out of underneath your skin, just doesn't work. Just like a drug.


Writing helps, I find. Writing this blog is, I've found, a very effective way of putting things into perspective and realising a different sense of relief. I'd recommend writing. It's very powerful, a set of words. And it doesn't even matter if it makes sense or not. Hell, the stuff I've put down to paper (or computer screen) has sometimes been so incomprehensible even I can't make sense of it a few weeks later! Whatever your soul speaks, it should be recorded, because your soul is precious.


Heck, I don't even know what a soul is and I'm supposed to be a little Christian girl.


Whatever you believe in, believe this: there's always an alternative to putting yourself through hell.


Be it writing, talking, painting, cooking, watching a good movie, listening to some really chilled out music (Mike Oldfield FTW!) or recording a spoken message, I think sometimes it's far more fun and satisfying than digging a red river down your arm :) In emergencies, I would recommend throwing your head into an icy bowl of water. Sounds crazy, but it really works. You don't even have to submerge your entire head - just the area around your eyes and nose. Leave space for your mouth so you can still breathe of course, because the idea is to keep your head submerged like that for thirty seconds at least. It's called the diver's reflex - after thirty seconds of ice-cold water, your sinus area and your eyes release endorphins and other lovely chemicals that make you feel uber-calm and relaxed. It's a strange little technique, but trust a certified nutjob - it works!


Thanks for letting me get this out of my system and thank you a million times for taking the time to read it! I hope it's helped you in some way as much as it's helped me. God bless.