I don't even know really where to start. And where this ends up with definitely be a big, unexpected thing that I have to figure out how to get to. I guess I will start with the present.
I've had some things rattling around in my head. The pandemic readjustment period has been rough. I think about where I was right before lock down. I worked really hard in early 2019 to get back to myself and kick some bad anxiety. For the first time in a long time, perhaps forever, I was comfortable in and fully enjoying the present. That's not to say that I was ever unappreciative of the present, just that I spent a lot of time with an eye on future goals, and there were definitely years as an adult where I did a lot of heads down powering through a rough present in order to create a future of some kind.
It's been a hard pill to swallow these last few months knowing that I've taken several steps backwards from where I was then. I held onto some things during the pandemic to keep myself sane and survive. Other things got put on hold. I hate the fact that I lost over a year's time to try my hand at dating, only to get so overwhelmed at less than a week on dating apps that I had to admit to myself I don't have the time and energy for that. It's something I want eventually, but right now I just can't. And I hate that.
I'm at this weird place where I feel this itch to do more with my time, to have something new or revived going on in my life, but I am also acutely aware I don't have the same emotional energy these days as I did. I don't want to lose those things I've held onto because they are the only things keeping me going right now. But I also want something to bring a spark back - something that makes me feel like I'm flourishing again, not just surviving.
Writing has been on my mind more lately. Do I finally put in the effort to do something with the book I've already written? Do I write a new one? Do I write a bunch of pointless blogs no one reads? Do I really care what happens with what I write or is just doing it what I need? I don't know.
That brings me to this moment and what I actually sat down here to write. The last few paragraphs were to ground my life at the moment. Or maybe they were a way to put this off just a tiny bit longer. Most likely I just wanted to write those things down too because they have been in my head and they won't get their own blog.
With all that rattling around my head, I found myself after midnight driving home and the song "Scars to Your Beautiful" by Alessia Cara comes on. And that reminds me. Check what month it is now. Yep, it's September again. A few weeks ago I thought about September coming around again. I hate that I still think about this anniversary every time it comes around. 15 years - that's a milestone amount of years, right? I always mark the month because I don't remember the specific date. I don't want to remember honestly, but I remember the month. September. 15 Septembers ago was the last time I cut myself.
I am doing this. I am actually going to do this. I am going to sit here, after 1 in the morning, and write this out. Because I think of all the things I could or should write, this tops the list. I should have written this years ago. But I was always too scared. Before I get into details, some more general insights.
Recently I have been reading this book about attachment styles. Basically there are 3 (maybe 4) ways people attach to others when they build relationships. Most of what I've learned talks about how people with each style behaves and not so much about how they got that way. Early theories say it harkens back to the first 18 months of life, later info says later times can mold that. Regardless of when it happens, from what I've learned I seem to have a mildly avoidant attachment style. At some point in their lives, avoidant attachers learn that other people cannot meet their emotional needs and therefore repress their needs for attachment and self soothe. We have trouble opening up about our problems, we have trouble asking for help, and we tend to be overly self-reliant.
While that told me nothing I didn't already know, and it hit on things I've been actively working on for years, it did get me to thinking about where that could come from for me. It brought up a lot of thoughts about past coping mechanisms and how I got to be who I am now.
I've spent most of my life under a lot of pressure to be exceptional. I cannot say for sure where that came from, but I have my ideas. It's funny because I think my parents were good at not putting pressure on me. If anything they were worried about the pressure I put on myself. I put a lot of pressure on myself. Maybe I still do, hopefully less so, just because that's what I'm used to. I think the pressure came from the rest of the world. I was shy as a child, highly sensitive, and I probably had some social anxiety issues that were never recognized because that wasn't a thing people thought about back then. I learned at a young age that being exceptional, standing out for achievement, meant attention and praise. And I liked that. But now I realize other people put a lot of pressure on me to be that amazing, impressive kid. Being intelligent and talented meant the world had expectations of me. And meeting those became a big part of my identity.
For far too long I told myself it wasn't okay to struggle. I had a reputation to protect, and if people knew how hard it was sometimes that would undermine everything. Now I know, from my work being vulnerable, that people see the value in being open and honest about my struggles. Being open gives people space to say they too have the same struggles. And they get to see success is possible while struggling, not just for people without struggles.
My first really bad time was when I was a junior in high school. The stress of school plus working towards getting ready for college was a LOT. But I wasn't allowed to crack. I remember one time telling my high school best friend I was having a hard time and she got mad at me for it, saying my life wasn't hard like hers. What could I have going on that was so bad? That would be, uhhh, definitely depression. But what do teenagers know about that? Adults have a hard time understanding what it's like, so of course teenagers who haven't been taught about it couldn't understand. I didn't understand.
***Maybe stop here because things could be triggering***
I remember the first time I learned about cutting. I watched a made for TV movie about it. The movie was probably trying to scare teens into NOT cutting themselves. I just remember thinking "Hmmm, that's a new idea." I never actually cut myself in high school. The closest I got was that I would sometimes wear safety pins as a fashion accessory on my shirt, and when I had a bad day I would thread the safety pin through the top layer of my skin.
One time I think a classmate of mine was a cutter. I wanted to tell her I didn't believe her cat did that to her, and I knew what she did instead. But I was too afraid. I didn't want her to feel shame. And I didn't want to admit that was something I thought about. So I let it go. I hope she's ok in her life now.
I loved college. I will speak so fondly of all the wonderful things I did in college and all the amazing people I spent time with. Those were some wonderful days! But college also held some of the darkest days of my life. For years of thought that those times and the dark secret they held is that one missing piece of my story that explains so much of me and no one ever got to know. I've told a small handful of people some vague generalizations about what I did, but I've never really talked details. But I've always been afraid that if I never get them out, I will carry them around with me forever. I am not this girl anymore, this doesn't influence my life anymore, so I have to let them out and let them go.
The first time I ever cut myself was sometime in the Fall semester of my freshman year. Honestly I am embarrassed at the so unimportant circumstances that lead to it. My roommate had a friend she made at orientation whose birthday it was. The two of them had dinner with the girl's parents. My roommate had a surprise party planned for the girl in her dorm. Her parents ended up taking them back to the dorm, so that pushed up the surprise time. My roommate had planned on coming back to our room to do my hair and I was going to go to the party with her. She ended up coming home hours later already really drunk. The party began without me. I don't remember if she ever let me know or just came home drunk. But then she left again and I felt so alone. Obviously there were other things going on - the stress of college, long term pressure to succeed, low self-esteem issues, etc. I just finally hit that low and that idea sprang to mind. I had a spare scalpel blade in my desk that I bought with my freshman biology dissection kit. Yeah, maybe colleges shouldn't sell those to teenagers when colleges don't do well tending to student's mental health needs! I don't know why I chose the location I did, but I still have the scar on my left pointer finger.
For the rest of that year, every month or so, when things just got to be a little too much, I would wait for my roommate to not be around, and then I would take care of things. I didn't talk about my stress. I didn't admit to anyone I was having a rough time. I just took care of it. Every other time I was fine.
After my freshman year I thought I was fine. I throw the scalpel blade away and went home for the summer. I never cut myself at home. It was my safe place. And I thought I would be fine sophomore year. But then I had to take organic chemistry. (This was a joke. Because organic chemistry is notoriously horrible!!!) But seriously being a science major was really hard for me. As an at or near genius level IQ person coming from a small town, school was never hard for me. I did my homework but I never learned to study. Sciences classes were a big change (I did great in non-science classes). This was the first time in my life I may not achieve what I had been planning since I was a kid (which I didn't achieve). I didn't know how to cope. And if people found out, I would be ruined! That's not factually true, but it felt that way. Plus, I've always felt different, like people don't think the way I do or see things the way I do. And they have a hard time understanding me. So without achievement, I was just this weird inscrutable thing, and if people knew that, I would be all alone.
I am not ashamed that I cut myself for so long. I was young and didn't know how to cope with the immense pressure I was under. Society and institutions put so much on me and then failed to care for me. I am not alone in this AT ALL. This is the thing I am ashamed of. Spring of my sophomore year I moved into the sorority house. I roomed with two amazing women. One of my roommates on several occasions talked about her heart ache of her brother being a cutter. She hated that he did that and she couldn't get him to stop. And here I was, doing the same thing in our room, keeping it a secret. I couldn't stop, but I sure as hell couldn't say anything and add to that pain. I hated myself for being sympathetic to her while hiding the same thing. I've never admitted that ever. It feels good to let it out.
But you may be thinking "But Dayna, you threw away your scalpel blade. How did you keep cutting yourself?" I'll tell you! Disposable razors! You just break them and there it is! Voila! A perfectly useable razor and since I could get disposable razors way easier, I didn't use the same one for a whole year! Seriously, the fact I didn't get some kind of illness from the metal is a surprise to me. I have this scar on my thumb from one time when I was trying to pull the blade from the razor. I am not quite sure what went wrong, but it swung around and cut a chunk out of my knuckle. That fucker bleed more than anything ever. I remember seeing something white at the bottom of the wound.
Here's the problem with being secretive and smart. I never did the dozen of large slashes across the forearm like people probably think about. I didn't want to get caught. So it was always 2-3 slashes in length easily covered by a normal sized bandaid. And before I was even done I already had my mind working on some lie about some dumb klutzy thing I did. Also, I switched up locations. Never the same arm twice in a row. If it was too soon since the last time, I'd go for an ankle or above the knee. Granted, this was maybe a once a month occurrence, but still. I needed to keep things plausibly accidental.
My most prominent scars were from a particularly bad time. Thinking about writing this out now it's going to sound super stupid, but in the moment to a 19 year old girl it was a very emotional day. It was fall my junior year. For homecoming all of the Greek houses participated in a lip sync event. That year my house put a ton of effort into a killer routine. But of course stupid Delta Gamma used their money to win the competition, despite our awesome performance. Back at the house we were talking about doing things to commiserate. I was very vocal about wanting to do something. Eventually the house was empty and no one invited me along anywhere. Honestly, it's probably because I lived in the only room on the third floor and people probably didn't even know I was still there. I hit this really dejected place, plus like there was always a build up of other stuff going on. That night alone in my room I made the deepest cuts I had ever done. But this night, I wanted people to know. I was in so much pain I wanted to shout it from the rooftops! I couldn't take it anymore - the internal pain, the cutting, the hiding, the lying. So I let the blood run down my arm and I went for a walk around the house. I always wonder what would have happened that night if I ran into someone different. The only girl I ran into was one of my sorority sister's biological younger sister who was visiting to get the college sorority experience. She was still in high school. I couldn't for the life of me traumatize this poor girl because she happened to be the only one around. So I hid my arm behind my back and had a normal, friendly conversation with her. I may have even walked around the house with her for a bit. And then I went back to my room, clean off the long trail of blood down my arm, and went to bed.
I think of my cutting as a form of self medication. It definitely gave a rush of chemicals to counter act the negative ones in my system. At the time though I described it to myself that I wanted to feel on the outside how I felt on the inside. Because at least outside wounds make sense. The pain is visible and eventually the wound heals. Inside pain is more complicated. I may have even ritualized it. I kept my razor blade in a first aid kit. When the time came, I would put on some music, there being a few specific songs I played. When I was finished, I would clean myself up and put on a band aid. Then I would always leave the trash on my desk. I always cut at night. Some part of me wanted to get caught because then I could talk about it. But when I woke up in the morning I would be scared of getting caught and just throw everything away.
I took a bit of a break the spring of my junior year. I wish I could say it was because I was doing better. Quite the opposite actually. Near the beginning of the semester my roommate attempted suicide. The last time I ever saw her was earlier that evening. She never came back to school. I was so afraid that if I got caught I would get kicked out of school too, so I stopped. Besides, that experience was a whole other level of painful. Nothing but time was going to numb that. I don't really want to write about that here. I think it's its own thing, and I wouldn't feel comfortable writing about it. Maybe one day I'll talk to someone about that, but that's another day. I will say this though - I've never wiped the smug look off a professor's face so fast than by telling him THAT was why I was late to an exam. :^P
I remember when my mom figured out I was cutting myself. Why do moms have to be so smart?!?! She noticed the scar on my arm, and commented how she thought the scar was on the other arm. Except yeah there was one on both arms. Matching scars in almost the same place on both arms isn't exactly a coincident. I've had people once or twice after that notice my scars, but they never put anything together. I tried scar removal cream on some of them after my November 2019 car accident (where I was also trying to limit scarring on an airbag burn). But scar cream requires once a day application for MONTHS! Ugg!
I restarted the Fall of my senior year. Geez, telling this part makes me feel bad too. I got pulled into a meeting of this behavior committee we had in our sorority. Evidently I had been posting some pretty moody stuff on MySpace (yes, I'm THAT old, gah!) and they were concerned. It came out that I had stopped cutting myself and didn't really know how else to cope, so it came out that way. Fuck, I think I still sometimes post moody shit, but I swear now it's meant to be deep and not some moody b.s. of a 20 year old! After that meeting I thought people wanted to talk to me to see how I was and maybe I'd get some help. But no one said anything about it to me after that. I figured if they weren't bothered by it, might was well start again. At least then I could not be so moody and hide my feelings again. I don't have any hard feelings about that. Ladies that young wouldn't know what to do with that kind of information. I do wonder if any actual adults found out.
The only memorable instance from my senior year was this one. My roommate (I had a different roommate each semester, if that matters) sat at her desk with her back to me. I sat on my bed, the bottom bunk. I just sat there, brazenly making cuts to my ankle. Then a couple of our sisters came into the room and the four of us hung out and talk. I sat there for who knows how long with a pillow covering my bleeding ankle.
The last time I cut myself was in September 2006. I had graduated college and moved back home. That day I got into a huge fight with my dad. He was being a huge fucking ass hole about something he was often a huge fucking ass hole about. So I stormed off, locked myself in my room, and made those final cuts. My mom knew what I was doing, but that didn't stop me. After that I told myself that had to be it. I always saw cutting as something I did in college, and once I left college I left that behind. But if I did it after that, there at home, it was a home thing too. And home doesn't have a finite timeline.
One time some while after I officially stopped, my mom made a comment about checking my purse for razor blades. That upset me. I wondered how long it would be until she trusted I wouldn't do it again, until she stopped looking for signs or stopped thinking I would relapse. Now I wonder if she remembers it was even a thing. I guess that's a big reason I've been afraid all these years to let people know about it. I wrote an entire novel fictionalizing my experience because I wanted to get it out without actually telling the facts. I just feared that after knowing, people would see me from that lens. That people would think I would become that person again under the right circumstances. It could be because at times in those early years I missed it. There were times that picking back up that razor blade and cutting away years of it being down seemed so easy, I could feel it. That was a long time ago. Now if feels like a lifetime away, another person in a movie or something. The thought of ever doing something like that to myself is abhorrent to me. I had this thought several weeks ago. We all have people in our lives who tell us about the people that have hurt them the most. And when you really care about someone you get negative feelings about the hurtful people on behalf of those you care about. Well, I'm the person who's hurt me the most. And maybe it's hard to ask someone to love the person who's hurt you the most, even if it is you.
My biggest regret was that it took me over a decade later before I saw a therapist. I can't undo the pressures put on me during my youth, but I can chose to not be that person who lets that rule my life. I've put in a lot of work to not be that person anymore. And yeah, I was probably too self-reliant and did a lot of it on my own. I just think of all the things I made it through in the years that followed with much better coping skills. I am surviving a freaking pandemic! Hmmm...and now I am wondering if I had learned about vibrators in college if I could have coped a LOT better!
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