Speaking Bipolar

From the Pages of a Perpetual Pariah — The Bloodletting

The Hidden Chapter, Page 2

TRIGGER WARNING: Brief discussion of self-harm

My Daughter Was a Cutter

M y daughter came to me when she was 11 with something in her closed hands and a horrible look on her face. Like me, she’s an ugly crier and our sobs have excellent warning properties, so I knew that’s where things were going fast. I stopped what I was doing and asked her what was wrong. She opened her clenched fists to reveal an assortment of sharp things: razor blades, staples, scissors. I saw the Band-Aids on her fingers. Why hadn’t I noticed them before? When she saw the blow hit, her tears spilled over, and I pulled her into my arms to tell her it would be okay. She was shaking. She was saying she was so, so sorry. She couldn’t stop.

I did a little bit of research on cutting at the time. Very basic research so nothing to be considered expertise, by any means. “Why?” Probably my biggest question. And “Could I have prevented it?”

Rarely is the act of cutting an actual suicide attempt and rarely is it considered to be a sign of suicidal ideation. Today, a good portion of the stigma can be attributed to social media which glamorizes it, along with the more “legacy” acts of body harm — anorexia, bulimia. (We dealt with those later.) An ideal solution for the misplaced, misunderstood teen with little to no self-efficacy under a lot of internal stress, few friends, quiet, introverted, the easy victim of school gossip and bullying. (Many more things I knew nothing about until later.)

There were a couple of things that stood out to me about this self-harm. The most common reason as to “why?” was that the individual considered it a “release” from their inner pain, watching the thin blade cut delicate skin, slowly, in a steady, controlled pattern. A reflection of the control they were trying to achieve within their lives. It was somehow a distraction to detract from their internal pain by externalizing it. Additionally, it was a high. Often explained as euphoric. And like any illicit drug, it was addictive. Her once beautiful arms and legs are evidence of its addiction.

She Got it From Me

Neuroses exhibit themselves in multiple ways and they’re sneaky little bastards. They have big family trees. And they’re contagious.

The revelation I’m sharing here has literally come to light within the past six months, while writing what has turned into a memoir that has taken me down a very dark, overgrown path. I suffered severe childhood abuse at the hands of my stepdad, Jimmy, from the age of nine to 14.

I recently wrote, in great detail, about my childhood abuse in a separate article that also belongs to this series, but it hasn’t been published yet: “From the Pages of a Perpetual Pariah — The Inception of My Insanity.” Publication is currently pending but it will eventually be out for those of you interested. Trigger warning in advance: Severe childhood abuse/neglect/violence/foul language.

Since very early in my life, undoubtedly due to the years of physical and psychological abuse with virtually no control over my life, no one to protect me, a demon emerged within my psyche. He put it there.

This demon began to manifest itself very early on, rebelling against both my abuser and my mom, who didn’t protect me. Talking back, stomping out of the room, hysterically screaming at the top of my lungs. Then it progressed even more into my teenage years, glaring at him, trying to muster up some superhuman strength to literally make his heart burst in his chest. One particular incident, he glared back and said he knew that I hated him, and he asked me if I wanted to kill him. And she told him calmly yes. His reply: “Then come do it,” knowing I couldn’t do crap about it.

Every night, I envisioned stabbing him with a dull steak knife while he slept. I was hiding one under a piece of the wooden floor next to my bed. I just couldn’t muster the courage to ever actually do it for fear it wouldn’t kill him, and I would most definitely suffer the consequences.

Taking Back Control

After getting kicked out at 16, I gained some semblance of control over my life, but this demon followed me. She was always on standby, waiting for the ample opportunity to present herself. Once I was living with my soon-to-be first husband in our own apartment for my Senior year of high school, it suddenly felt wrong to be so happy. To have so little conflict. We didn’t argue regularly. There weren’t many raised voices. Tempers were level. Something was missing. Something was wrong.

I began taunting him, daring him, pushing his buttons. I cut him down to less than a man with my words. I even hit him over the legs with a broomstick. She was eventually successful in getting his hands around my throat. Despite my physical weakness, she had won. While it might seem he had control, that I did, she did.

I Was a Cutter

The fact was that it felt so good to just let her take control and do her thing. It wasn’t a release through physical mutilation. I didn’t cut myself. I cut other people. And there was this immense feeling of escape and pleasure when she took control. It was this cool intake of air when I screamed as loud as I could. Hating. Cutting. It felt like chewing a mouthful of peppermints then deeply filling my lungs with the cold winter air. Elation when I broke someone down. I felt broken with them, but she didn’t and by that time, I merely fed her. This demon inside of me that was using me under the guise of being in control of myself. My decisions. My desires. I was her puppet.

In my 20s, I occasionally mentioned her in my journals, merely as my pervasive “darkness.” Otherwise, she seemed to have stepped back. I kind of missed her. I will publish some specific excerpts from my journal separately which refer to her. To me.

As is written elsewhere, I was very promiscuous, but someone particularly caught my eye when I was 22. He was a fiery redhead, witty and charming. An extrovert. Loud and popular. We quickly became friends then even quicker became lovers then overnight became married. It all happened so fast. Impulsively. He and I had known each other only a few months but to his demise, she and I had known each other much, much longer.

He was much larger than I and he was strong. Ah, this would be an even better challenge than ever before, and she was in it for the win. As instructed, I used the same tactics she taught me to anger him to the point of him eventually succumbing and pinning me in the corner of the living room wall holding me up with his hands around my neck. Sneaky witch. She had won again. She assured me this was me maintaining control of my life. Not allowing me to be tied down to anyone. I had forced him to do something he would never normally do. I was the one that was really in control. I was powerful enough to force his hand. To cut him.

It Wasn’t Me

I named her Dawn and I often introduced myself as such. Having some belief in the back of my mind that I perhaps had more than one persona. A disassociation. A feeling that I stepped out of my body for certain moments in time to become someone and something else. But then would return with guilt and shame for what she had done during that time.

And she continued to follow me. By this time, I had become very confused. Starting to lose sight of who was whom. Who exactly had control here? Was she developing alongside my innocent prefrontal cortex? Were we the same? Was she really me?

Following my impulsive pattern, in 2002, I swiftly met, fell madly in love with, and married the man who a year later became my only kid’s dad. She was born 4 days after my 27th birthday at a whopping 10 lbs after a year of marriage and despite me having every reason in the world to be happy, something was just missing. There was still a void.

My relationship with Barry was also abusive. I don’t remember it being as abusive as some of my family recount it to be. Both my mom and my younger sister remember clearly him having me leaned over the railing of our loft threatening to throw me over into the living room. By the time we moved to San Antonio in 2008, I had pushed him hard enough, wagged my finger in his face hard enough, repeatedly cheated on him, and I believe I may have actually punched him in the face.

He body slammed me in the loft upstairs. He injured my neck. My daughter saw it. It was shortly thereafter that I left him. I didn’t want her to see things like what I had experienced growing up. But it wasn’t me that had taunted him. Dawn had been doing so throughout our entire eight-year marriage. Once again, she succeeded in pushing a man who never thought he would be capable of hurting a woman into doing just that.

The men I cut will forever live with the fact that they attacked another woman. Whether they live with guilt or not, is left to be said, but it wasn’t from lack of her trying.

What Was Left of Me?

Like Jimmy had done for over five years, she would leave me an expended heap on the floor. Reeling from what I had done. What she had done. What she had made me do.

I had been doing this all my adult life. Every long-term relationship that I had had. She pushed and pushed and pushed. Leaving me empty every time. She got me high and then left me to deal with the aftermath. The consoling. The apologies. Ultimately the lack of conscience, because technically in my own way I was not the one who did it. She did. Or did she? I simply didn’t know anymore. I couldn’t trust me because I wasn’t sure who that even was anymore.

Rest in Peace

I forgave Jimmy before he died in 2010. I can’t remember if he had ever actually apologized. Maybe he tried in his own way. It really didn’t matter to me. This was about my healing, not his. He was so broken. He had his own demons. He wasn’t the same man that had hurt me for so long. That man had already died. I essentially forgave a shell.

I sat on the front porch of our old farmhouse before he didn’t have the energy to smoke anymore. Gazing off into the green pasture, I asked him if he was afraid. He said no but it wasn’t courage in his eyes. The man that left me trembling on the floor so many times was trembling as he brought the smoke to his mouth. I had empathy for the man who robbed me of my childhood. I believed when he died that she died with him. I had forgiven him. I truly had.

After a whirlwind of a mess with my life at that time, I had found myself in a new relationship. Jack said I was amazing. He knew I was crazy. He said I was his kinda crazy. I had just been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder and the Air Force had to let me go. He couldn’t take his words back about two years later. It soon became evident that she hadn’t died with Jimmy. She had become an integral part of me.

Until the next page, my friend. To be continued…

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