Self Harm: Getting Over The Shame
** TRIGGER WARNING - THIS ARTICLE INCLUDES DISCUSSION ON SELF HARM **
I’m a fairly open person; in that I mean I talk about my mental health, sex life, my personal history and experiences without shame. I’ve just never been one to keep things to myself…
However, I know I sing from another song sheet when it comes to one part of my life. I try not to think about it and I don’t talk about it. Only very few people know about it and if I do tell them, I tell them only that it happened. We don’t talk about why or when or how I feel about it now. They don’t ask either.
In all honesty, I prefer it that way. It feels like a very dirty part of my life; better out of sight and out of mind. However, a few things recently have caused for me to start tugging at the seam and, for the first time in about nine years now, I’ve started asking myself why I feel so ashamed about it.
The shame isn’t a light one that I can just shrug off and laugh about; it’s a gnawing one that leaves big holes in my timelines, it’s a big part of my life that I just pretend never happened. In fact, if it didn’t feel hypocritical I would post this under a pseudonym. And to be even more truthful, I wonder why I am even writing this when I feel so much shame about it… I’m scared that people will read this and I’ll get clumped into a caricature. Like people will envision me standing on a podium in an empty stadium asking where my medal is.
I’m scared of being looked at as attention seeking or insincere or self serving or self righteous or any number of things. I’m aware of this vague notion in my head that tells me the more noble thing to do is to keep quiet. I’m scared of people asking why I posted this and me having to splutter out some incoherent justification, bringing up words like ‘taboo’ and ‘stigma’ in between panicked sips of water.
But, you know what, I think it’s time I ripped the plaster off and tried to create some good from all of the shit. So, buckle in - here’s my big, bad secret.
When I was in school I used to self harm. The last time I did it was at university. It’s something I still think about a lot; not that I tell people that but I do still struggle. I still battle with something that feels like a craving; like wanting a cigarette or a glass of wine at the end of a hard day.
I remember the day I first did it. I had just finished reading a book and at the time, I can’t even remember why, but alongside everything else, I just felt everything a bit too hard. (There is more to this; but I won’t kick every skeleton out of the cupboard right now. You get it though; you’re a human being, you’ve struggled with emotions before).
So I went into the bathroom, stared into the mirror for a long time, broke a razor and used the blade to cut my arm until it bled. It took several attempts to break the skin and see blood but, after it was all done, I felt something similar to silence. After that first time, I did it again and again. With blunt scissors. Jagged edges of plastic. Sometimes razors.
I hadn’t heard of other people doing it before; this wasn’t a moment of inspiration. I’m not sure why I did it. I need to be responsible with how I talk about this as I don’t want to upset or endanger anyone but I know the common question is why. Why on earth would you do that? To be honest, I’m not sure I’m qualified to answer that.
It was about a lot. I was hurting but I didn’t know how to make people see and it felt like my words were useless; I couldn’t make certain situations in my life change. No matter what I did or said or if I cried or screamed or lashed out; I thought maybe hurting myself would make people in my life stop their destructive behaviours. I thought maybe I could get them to look after themselves. I thought their behaviour equalled mine. I knew how much it affected me seeing what they did to themselves; I thought maybe they would feel the same and things would change.
The other reason is that in moments of real upset, my head was so full and chaotic. It was like having the TV playing on FULL VOLUME and you’re running around trying to find the remote, trying to get it to quieten, but you’re searching under pillows and the sofa and on the coffee table and the voice is still SO LOUD, and all you want is some silence. Self harm was my TV remote. The pain and the ‘goal’ (for want of a better word) gave me something to focus on. It made things quieten down.
Realistically as well, did I like myself much? No, not really. Did I want to make myself hurt a bit? Unfortunately, yes.
When I looked at the scars, it suddenly felt like I had tangible evidence of how I felt inside. I’ve been pretty good at being a happy person, or seeming pretty happy at least (making exception for the great Summer of 2014 where I suffered great teen heartbreak and cried into pitchers at Spoons) but the point is, I actually wasn’t coping. I wasn’t willing to let people into that in a real way, so instead I carried on seeming okay and keeping up a destructive habit that felt like a comfort to me. It was my way of letting myself know that I was experiencing something - without having to let it consume me. I could have a laugh in Science Class (sorry Mr. Wright), get good grades and then go home and keep all my worries private.
Did I want attention? No. That was the last thing on this earth I wanted. I stopped seeing the gravity of the situation. It felt like my prerogative; my coping mechanism. Who was this harming except myself? No one.
Then, somehow, the school found out. They pulled my sister for a conversation before me. I remember walking past her as I was asked to the office - she was hysterically crying and told me, as I got my last glimpse of her, ‘I didn’t tell them anything’. I had no idea what she was on about. But that’s how she was told.
I was pulled into the office and told they knew. It felt like they were one step away from pulling a lamp on my face and performing a good cop, bad cop routine. When I look back now, it probably didn’t help with the shame attached. There’s no way around it; I felt told off.
I was so embarrassed; just totally totally mortified. The teacher who I talked to was my English teacher (praise be) who I had always, and always will, idolise. I have always been a bit of a nerd, always strived for the best grades, marks, compliments. It’s a fault but there it is. I’ve never wanted anyone to think of me as anything but kind and clever. In that greying little office I felt totally stripped off that; like all my years of putting in graft as a good student had been totally erased - like their perception of me was irrevocably changed. (Again - having another lightbulb moment, probably why I didn’t share this with anyone). Simply put, I felt pathetic. The way they talked to me; I was made to feel like a naive idiot, rather than someone asking for help. I was given counselling (which I am very grateful for) and told I had to tell my parents - or they would.
So that night, just before going to watch the theatrical performance of the Lion King (timing has always been my strong suit), I told my Mum in the car. She stopped the car, got out, slammed the door and cried. I sat in the back, saying nothing, just pushing myself into the backseat as far as I could go. She got back in and I asked if she would tell my Dad.
The days and weeks after, Mum got rid of every single sharp thing in the house. We were meant to have a house party and that was thrown into jeopardy (heaven forbid); a few of the Mum’s found out and my friends were no longer allowed to come. Just in case. My Dad talked to me and asked to see my wrist. I showed him, as he inhaled sharply and turned away. Sometimes someone would talk about it on TV and the silence in the room would solidify.
To this day, we don’t talk about it. It’s almost like it never happened - but it did. I know it did because I still have the scars.
To be clear, I do not blame anyone who knew for not wanting to pursue this conversation. I know I didn’t. I didn’t want to have to explain; it felt like trying to justify murder or a malicious abnormality. I still don’t walk to talk about it really; writing about it is another thing - and this is the first time I’ve ever written about it.
So why did I write this? Why bother if I don’t want the conversation?
Well there are lots of reasons actually. (Here starts the part where I start incoherently justifying it.)
What strikes me when writing this is the fact that Mum’s didn’t want their children seeing me after they found out. You have to ask yourself, why? Did they think it was contagious? I was made to feel like I was trying to infect people, like I was trying to start a “craze”, like an unsafe, overdramatic, attention seeking child who had caused her family untold sorrow and, there’s that word again, shame. So I carried it with me, talking about it with no one, not wanting to scare people or, more truthfully, fearing judgement; cowering because someone may call me an attention seeker.
I think of the way the school dealt with it; talking to my sister before me, the way they talked to me, the urgency in which I had to tell my parents.
The thing is, the rumours are true, you can’t educate your perception on something until you see it around you. You can’t react in a kinder way until you know how to sometimes.
Self-harm is a real thing for real people. It happens. It’s not just a plot point for coming-of-age films and a “trend” for teenagers. At one point the NHS did a study that said a quarter of 14 year old girls were self harming. 1 in 12 people have self harmed - and self harm doesn’t even mean sharp things and razors. It can be punching a wall or smashing things in anger. How many people have you known do that? Or have you done that? Will you be a parent one day? Are you a parent now? How would you deal with it if you found out your child was struggling? I know my parents felt like they had failed me - which isn’t true, in any sense whatsoever. Would you be able to get past your own shame and insecurities to have an open conversation about it? Ask yourself - would you feel informed enough to deal with that? Do you feel like you see enough about this issue to know how to help others?
Trying to find up to date information and statistics whilst writing this article was shockingly difficult; partially because, although yes it is not the most prevalent issue, it is also true that so few people admit to self harming and SO many of the studies are just about younger people. I wonder how long it will stay that way.
I do, absolutely and overwhelmingly still feel so much shame about this. I find it hard not to. I feel stupid talking about it. I wonder if I am helping anyone or whether I am just a bit perverse for airing my dirty laundry like this. But, the way I see it, I have a platform and I’ve worked very hard to create it. Akin to Spiderman, I have a responsibility.
I’ve lived the reality of dealing with self harm in the current climate (albeit it a few years ago). It is not good. It is really not good. If my family knew more about it, or my friends, or, heck, even if I knew more about it - maybe it would have been a less bumpy ride. Maybe I wouldn’t have been 23 by the time I talked about something I did when I was 14. I think information and familiarisation would have helped neutralise the shame - for everyone - and we would have been able to talk about it a little. Instead of me parking it in my memories next to my dusty One Direction posters.
But, to be honest, this isn’t all about everyone else. Sure, it’s a huge part of it and the idea of contributing or starting a conversation about this is amazing. Really, though, a lot of this is for me - or to be more specific, this is for 14 year old Jess sat crying in a grey office in front of her English teacher. I’m given her back some dignity in a big way by reclaiming this; by owning my own story a bit. It feels good to let it out. It feels like a kindness.
So, there we have it.
I am a twenty three year old woman. I live in Bristol with my boyfriend. I work in a studio doing marketing and as a wannabe photographer. I run this magazine. I drink wine with my friends and have a cup of tea in the morning. Sometimes I am happy and sometimes I am sad. I get on the bus and go for walks. I save up for holidays and watch too many episodes of TV in one sitting. I worry about money and sometimes I spend too much on things I don’t need. I hate washing up cutlery and frequently leave used clothes on my bedroom floor. I drink too loudly sometimes. I sleep at night and wake in the mornings. I used to self harm too. We don’t need to talk about it. I just think it’s time I stopped letting it make me feel bad.
If you’re feeling low, or are concerned about someone else, please take a look at this - https://www.nhs.uk/conditions/stress-anxiety-depression/mental-health-helplines/
There is also is a Bristol based organisation who are great - https://sishbristol.org.uk/
Written by Jess Blackwell
I’m Jess, the founder of The Everyday Magazine. Day to day I work in marketing and am training up as a photographer in a Boudoir Studio in Bath. As a general rule, I like to write about things that would be awkward to discuss with the family. Try not to blush.