A while ago I wrote that I was trying to get into a year-long DBT program through the mental health clinic where I’m seen. Well, I just found out I was accepted into the program! I’m relieved, and a little anxious. But mostly relieved. I really think this will be good for me.
In my effort to not self-harm, I arted some more. Neither is finished, but it helped me get through the evening injury free.
I cut it open to see what was inside, but all I could see was blood.
I cut and wrote a D in my skin. It stands for Don’t fucking eat.
Don’t expect anyone to love you.
Don’t sit around on your butt today.
Don’t eat, you fat whore.
Disgusting, that’s what you are.
Don’t even think about eating that.
All this and so much more.
There is a blue vein in my left wrist that sticks out. I’m left-handed, so I normally don’t cut on my left arm. However, when I look at this vein, I want to open it.
It calls to me. It’s not a suicidal thing. It’s not even really a self-harm thing. I just feel the desire to slice into it, to see the blood.
Just to see the blood.
The way it sticks up underneath my skin, it’s like it’s daring me to look inside.
Alas, anorexic nurses. Ugh.
I opened the drawer by my bed and this was the first thing I saw.
Also, I should probably get rid of some of these…
That’s one of my least favorite questions to answer.
I might start directing people to this article.
Earlier, I tried to eat an apple.
I failed.
I can’t eat apples whole. When I was a teen, I had braces and if I tried biting off of the whole apple, my brackets popped off, so I started cutting my apples into slices. I had braces for a couple years, so this was years of having to cut my apples.
My disordered brain latched on to this, and I haven’t been able to eat an un-cut apple since.
Well, earlier, I went out to get the one piece of food in the house that belongs to me: one apple. However, my youngest brother was sleeping on the sofa (a story for another post) and has to be up early for work so I was trying very hard not to make noise. Our cupboards have latches on them and will NOT open or close quietly, so I wasn’t able to get anything to cut it with.
I went back to my room and tried a couple bites, but I just couldn’t do it.
A while later, I decided to eat some crackers. However, I was feeling really guilty about it before I even started, so I decided to make a cut on my arm for each cracker I ate.
I know, I know, I am not brilliant. M
Anyway, this was going along fine until the 13th crackers. Then, I accidentally cut too deeply.
I sat there in shock for a couple seconds. The unexpected pain and seeing my skin hanging open put me into a momentary state of confusion.
After coming back to reality, I recognized that I needed to do something about my arm. I quickly grabbed some toilet paper and pressed it firmly on the cut for a while to slow the bleeding.
After a while, I removed the tissue to check the cut. I got this terrible, sick feeling in my stomach when I saw my skin just hanging open. I pushed the cut closed and it just fell open again.
At seeing this, I knew I probably should go get stitches, but that wasn’t happening. I decided to just dress it carefully. I pulled out my Hypafix tape (best stuff ever) and I bandaged my arm, being sure to make sure my skin was tightly pulled together at the cut. I wrapped up the rest of my arm to cover the other cuts, then cleaned up all the signs of anything happening.
Now, I’m a little dizzy and very nauseous, but my arm doesn’t hurt. It will, that’s for sure, but right now it’s fine.
While I was dressing the cut, I asked myself whether those crackers were worth it.
The answer is most definitely “no”.
It’s coming to the part of the year where I will be wearing a hoodie every waking moment.
When I was thinking about this, one of my first thoughts was, “now I can cut on my arms again,” which I’m not sure where the thought came from. I haven’t cut in…I’m not even sure how long, and I don’t even feel tempted to very often. But apparently something in me wanted to cut, and to be able to conceal it.
I don’t want hoodie season to be an encouragement for me to start cutting again. I thought maybe I should throw away my blades, but I have a mostly unused 50 pack of them in my desk drawer and it would feel so wasteful to toss them out.
Why does it matter if I’m “wasting” items that are harmful to me physically and mentally? I’m not sure, but it feels too wrong to entertain the idea.
I noticed a trend in myself this morning. I backpedal a lot. But only in situations where it’s important, and mostly when others are trying to help me.
I remember, when I did residential in 2010, I was there for almost 8 months. About halfway through, I was really struggling. I was having a lot of hallucinations and I was very suicidal. I wrote a note about it and put it in the program director’s mailbox. (That’s about as direct as a I get.)
I was summoned to her office to talk about the note. When confronted, I backpedaled. No, I wasn’t reallyworried about hurting myself. I that suicidal. (I’m not sure how suicidal you have to be to be considered a risk?) I wasn’t really having hallucinations. Blah, blah, blah.
Because I couldn’t be upfront and honest, I ended up not getting the specialized help that I needed, and my stay there was probably longer than it would have been otherwise.
I noticed this morning that I do this a lot. I put some information out there, wait for the professionals to react, then retract my statements. I don’t know why I do this. I did it this morning.
In my session this morning, I mentioned in passing how much I was struggling, and the finger indecent. He was, naturally (and rightly) concerned. He wanted to call an ambulance and have me admitted in the hospital to keep me safe. He was very worried about my safety.
So, I did the only logical thing, which was to downplay the whole event and to minimize the extent to which I was struggling. I’m, apparently, really good at this. I’m great at assuring mental and medical health professionals that I’m not really a danger to myself and that I’m not really struggling. And I convinced him. Well, at least enough that he didn’t call the ambulance.
He did schedule another meeting for Monday, but I wasn’t admitted to the hospital today.
The thing is, I do this with myself. I have thought every day this week, at some point, “if I’m feeling this way tomorrow, I’ll go to the hospital.” But when the next day comes, I talk myself out of it. I convince myself that I’m really not doing that badly and that I don’t really need to go.
Again, I don’t know why I do this. Maybe I should tell him on Monday…
a2eternity 