Rolling in the deep….

i have bad patches. 

days when life is dark 

days when I’m dripping in sadness 

sometimes the days are weeks 

or

months

but

there is light. glimpses of life.

i struggle. it’s exhausting. I hate it.

there is purpose, though.

i do fight it.
i have a very definite tipping point.

my serious relapses follow an identical pattern 

insomnia cloaks me in a miserable fog

panic stacks come knocking 

guilt, shame, blood 

until i’m paralysed.

every minute of every day becomes intolerable 

the outside world is terrifying 

opening my eyes each morning is overwhelming

i attempt to soothe myself with scalpels 

and

opiates

but

nothing works, nothing lasts. 
i’ve crossed that threshold 

i’m in it.

can’t you hear me calling, i’m falling…..

the descent into self harm is frightening

you start so small

&

fall to depths you hadn’t imagined existed.

i began scratching my wrists.

just pulling away the skin with my fingers nails.

tiny little patches of skin.

it was enough to offer some relief

for a little while

soon

i had to draw blood

the entire surface of my wrist became an open sore

i could never allow it to heal

never leave  it alone.

the wounds began to creep up my arm

until wrist to elbow was raw

still very superficial

just enough to bleed, to hurt.

of course the need grows

“enough” doesn’t actually exist.

the problem is

you don’t discover that until it’s too late.

and,

so,

i moved onto knives.

kitchen knives at first

until people started to notice they were missing

until the questions started

then i started to buy my own

cherishing a growing collection under my mattress.

the hoarding commenced

i needed to purchase any knife that appeared useful

i had to keep the blooded rags.

i procured a special wicker box to store morbid collection

by this time i was sawing at my forearm.

just over and over until the blood was sufficient

&

i felt calm.

still not deep

not dangerous

very soon it was not enough.

i can’t remember why the thought occurred,

but

i know where i was when it popped into my head

on a bus, returning from stirling.

RAZOR BLADES

it made my stomach fizz

part fear, part excitement.

and,

so,

when i stepped off that bus i headed straight to boots.

i used standard disposable ladies razors.

the type you’d shave your legs with

no one would wonder why i was buying them

or find their existence in my flat strange.

i’d stockpile.

buying packs in every shop that sold them

&

spend hours on the sofa pulling the razors from their plastic holders.

filling little boxes with shiny, sharp razors

making sure i always had one ready when i might need it.

razors provided a new level of control

i could be precise

they were sharper

i could cut deeper in  a single swipe

i lost a lot more blood

i felt said satisfied

i applied more and more pressure

creating deeper gashes

there was so much blood

it was a huge rush

i felt like everything was washing away in that crimson tide.

the frequency grew

the number of cuts rocketed

i began to run out of space on my arm

i moved to my right forearm,

upper arms,

thighs

i needed fresh skin

i needed an outlet

i needed more.

i cut daily during that period

it lasted a few years.

hiding it was hard

very few people knew

i was sore all the time

i’d make hundreds of cuts every night.

everything hurt

i’d wake stuck to my sheets with dried blood

bathing stung

clothes rubbed and stuck and nipped

but i couldn’t stop

and i couldn’t stand still.

the next logical step was a scalpel

they are designed to cut skin

i knew i could easily do damage with a scalpel

i found them in an art store in town

real swann & morton scalpels

i didn’t think it would be that easy

i had an amazing cover story

i’d discuss my art projects with the girls in the shop

i had become a really good liar.

i had also become pretty proficient at self harm

the scalpel both terrified & thrilled me

i did consider not using it,

but once the thought is born

there is no escaping it

it sliced through my skin like butter

i could chop myself up in minutes.

the blood was immense

hard to control some times

i had gone from bloodied rags to blood soaked towels

the more blood i lost

the more blood i needed

i had begun to crave bigger cuts

deeper cuts

wider cuts

at that time i had only hrequired stitches once or twice

times when i had lost control

usually in anger

it has scared me.

the a&e experience had been horrendous

i think, subconsciously, part of me was holding back

and,

so,

my cutting stayed stable for a long period

i cut most days

each cut just one strike

pushing as hard as i could

usually just flesh wounds

occasionally i’d slice through to fat.

i cut prolifically

many, many cuts in each session

i began to get ill

i was losing too much blood

i was beginning to pass out during bouts of self harm

i was sometimes sick

it didn’t bother me

i was too far in

i remember around that time filling old perfume bottles with my blood

i had dozens of them

i have no idea why i did it

i don’t know what i got from it

but

i kept them for a long time

until they stank

i really didn’t want to throw them away

i think about my rubbish from that time

if anyone had ever looked at it

everything was covered in blood

my flat was drenched in blood

 stains on carpets, bed clothes,furnisher

bloodied hand prints on door handles, light switches, taps

i no longer  noticed

it was a very bleak time

i was living for the blood.

i continued in that strain for years

sometimes doing a little better

feeling good

cutting less

living more,

but

always in fear of the storm returning

 living under a cloud

and,

then,

one night i cut as usual

i lived here in this flat by then

it must have been about 4yrs ago,

i was cleaning up

putting away my tools

i felt dizzy

and unsatisfied

i sat in my hall

and

began to think

part of me had always felt inadequate

for not going deeper

for not requiring more stitches

i felt i was weak

i couldn’t even do this properly

just like that my mind flicked a switch

i picked up my scalpel and cut into an already open wound

and i  kept cutting

for about an hour

until i was through the fat

until i could see blue veins clearly

until the blood started to spurt

until my arm was split open like soft fruit

i didn’t think i was capable of wreaking such destruction

i had believed i couldn’t & wouldn’t go that far

but i can

and

i do.

every cut i make is on that scale now

i can not go back

i am forever seeking more

i want each cut to “better” the last

they all need stitched

i rarely go

i keep them clean & let them heal

see a dr if they get infected.

two years ago i was admitted to hospital as they thought i was on the verge of a a heart attack

i was kept in for two days

on a heart monitor & oxygen

i was diagnosed with angina

my haemoglobin levels are so low that there is simply not enough oxygen getting to my heart.

i faint almost daily

i experience extreme chest pain

i am always out of breath

always cold

always ill.

i still cut

i still lose vast amounts of blood

i know what i doing to myself

and,

yet,

i can not stop

self harm has a grip on me

self harm controls my life

it is who i am

what i do

how i survive.

how i wish i hadn’t;

scratched that little patch of skin.

hidden those knives

bought those razors

found that scalpel

lost control.