Non-Suicidal Self-Injury Saved Me From My Sorrows

You probably think it’s not that serious right?

Content Warning: self-harm and suicide

Left, right, center — I cut. I loved my wrists, so why?

I couldn’t stop slicing in the mild darkness of my bathroom — pathetic! I cursed myself because I knew it was wrong. I battled with my inner voice; it told me to stop, yet I disobeyed. I wish I listened the first day I did it.

I blamed society for my illness; they pressured me for not being in school. They judged me for being a failure, just because I didn’t make it into medical school the year my mates did.

I became a Hikkikomori with a social anxiety disorder; there was no way I could avoid it. The reason being how young and emotional I was. I let the somber words people directed towards me, get to my heart. How could I ignore them? My mind housed mental negativity, I was tired — tired of being the bait the other mothers used as a threat for their kids.

“You have to read, except you want to fail like Tina’s daughter.”

I ran, I cried, I found myself behind the closed doors of the bathroom — my peace. My escape from emotional pain. Physical pain was way better — I laughed through the razor. I wasn’t crazy, I just felt better. My mind loved my cuts, yet my wrists yelped for salvation.

It’s not that serious; I convinced myself after seeing how much blood I lost every cut day. My skin paled, my mother thought I had cancer. I didn’t feel bad, I felt glad there was a way to distract my emotions — physical distress.

I thanked the bandages underneath the thick cardigans I used as a shield to protect me from judging eyes. I didn’t want to die — but if people saw, they’ll make me their rat of judgment again.

“Stop being so dramatic and stop cutting your wrists.” I imagined their voices in my head. No! If that happened, I wouldn’t be able to answer. They’ll think I’m psychotic and send me to a mental hospital. Even the thought, made me cut.

I’m so happy I looked small, it allowed me to cut my wrists anywhere at any time, all I needed was a big jacket which could hide my demons. Perfect!

I thought no one could see, I was wrong. I didn’t open up to my parents at first; they caught me red-handed. They thought they could use the harsh treatment on me by seizing my collection of razors. I smiled in front of the mirror — it was a goner. I broke it and let the glass sink into my veins — dear blood, could you have mercy on me? I liked it so why did I cry again?

Mental illness. I wished I had a better one but was there a better one?

I wished I could shun the temptation to put my wrists in agony — I truly did. But why would I? It was my happy place after all. Why was it so wrong? Why did I feel so guilty about it?

I’m glad our past doesn’t define us. However, this is how I can define my past, the most hectic year of my life. I’m strong but I had to suffer self-harm because of how the voices of society made me feel. Honestly, till today I wish I could have handled it better — but I can’t go back to remove my scars, rather I have to live with them.

I am today years old when I realized I’m not the only one who has suffered this or is suffering from this mental illness — NSSID (Non-Suicidal Self Injury Disorder). I hate the fact that it connected to other illnesses like borderline personality disorder and even worse, substance abuse. Yes, I grew accustomed to sleeping pills because I wanted to help myself — but I did it wrongly.

Lord knows how many people are suffering from self-harm and can do nothing about it. Too scared they’ll be judged or taken lightly — if they could help themselves, sincerely, they would.

I’m even more ashamed I still have the urge to cut, does that mean I’m not over it yet? I’m scared. I hate the fact that COVID-19 has come to play a big role in my idleness and how those demons still find a way to torment me for being able to live without them. I wish I could be completely well and not care about a thing.

Maybe If my voice is heard, I’d be able to help people like me. If you’re suffering from self-harm — it may be mild or serious to the extent of passing out and waking up in a hospital bed, I want you to know that you are not alone. Seek consolation, don’t avoid it — it only gets worse if you do. Don’t use those sexy bangles as coverage for your scars that’ll end up reopening. Don’t convince yourself that it’s okay because I don’t want you to suffer as I did.

This story is a contribution to the Hikkikomori story linked above. I recommend you read it just to get a better insight as to why my illness started in the first place.