A Silent Echo

It’s hard to know when to begin in my story. I only remember fragments of my childhood, nothing's really clear before I was about eleven. My parents got divorced when I was four, after that my father popped into my life every two to three years after no communication. My older sister hates him, my younger sister doesn’t remember him, I just wanted him to love me so badly. My mother remarried when I was 10 and my stepfather is wonderful, a great dad. But I never really got over this desperate need I have for my birth dad to love me.

From the ages of 12 to 15 there is a slow change in the poetry I wrote. It went from happy and sappy to dark and depressing. By the time I was 16 I no longer wrote anything happy. My grades were the same, I slowly went from a straight A student in grade 7 to flunking out of university. When I was 16 I should have been on top of the world. I just got my license and my own car, and everything was great between me and my boyfriend of one month, my first real boyfriend. I had a relatively tight knit group of friends and I never did go through the phases where teenagers hate their parents. But there I was sitting in my room late one night with a kitchen knife attempting suicide for the first time.

I felt so lost and scared and lonely, I didn’t want to live anymore. Living was too hard, it hurt too much. The most overwhelming part of the memory is the fear; it consumed every part of me. I was extremely unsuccessful, just breaking skin enough to bleed. I felt so ashamed the next morning, paranoid that people would just look at me and know. But nobody noticed the bandages on my wrists, so a few nights later I tried again. From there it became my primary coping method, almost an addiction. I broke up with my boyfriend and slowly became more and more reclusive. I’ve never had a lot of friends but my not a lot became almost none.

I was lonely and scared, with this hope inside me that somebody would save me from myself. I couldn’t tell anybody, I was a freak, they would hate me, my family would stop loving me. It became a never-ending cycle. I would feel really angry or sad or confused, any really strong emotion, and I would cut. Than I would feel guilty, inadequate, a failure, so I would cut.

Even though I can picture it clearly in my mind, feel the memory, it’s hard to describe how cutting felt. I would feel a build-up over several days most of the time. I’d start to feel edgy, unable to sit still, out of control. My temper would become increasingly more explosive; tears would be forever choking me. I’d finally make the decision to cut and it would take the edge off.

That night I would sit in my room, at first with my back against the door, later I would sit up in bed, no longer afraid that someone would catch me. I would wait until everybody was sleeping, than get everything I needed together. I had a certain song I would listen to while I did it. Than I’d finally bring the knife to my wrists. I’d be hesitant at first, making small shallow cuts in the same spot, than slowly deeper as the blood welled to the surface and I was able to ignore the pain. Afterward I would feel so calm, relaxed, I would write in my journal and than go to sleep. In the morning I would hate myself, sometimes even right after, but it seemed to be the only thing that would work.

When I was 17 I went to the school counselor. I was careful not to reveal too much, not sure if I could trust her. I told her how sad I always felt, how angry and confused, how guilty I felt that my birth father didn’t love me, that the divorce was my fault because I couldn’t be loved. She gave me a book on “feeling sad”, and told me this was normal teenage stuff, and we never spoke again. I knew she was wrong, but I was too scared of discovery to talk to anyone else. As it was, it took me almost a year to work up the courage to talk to her, and she brushed me off.

I started taking sleeping pills, anything so I wouldn’t feel the pain. I would wake up feeling tired and drugged. Too tired to think, I liked that. I didn’t want to think. I would watch the news before I went to bed and than lay in bed all night thinking about all the reasons everything bad that happened in the world was my fault, wracked with guilt because I couldn’t fix it. Over the years I found better ways to cut, better knifes, ways to decrease the pain. I hated the pain but loved the blood. I still have a scalpel and a art knife kit in my bedside drawer and I always carry razor blades in my purse - just in case.

I was paranoid that someone would see the scars at first, but if anyone did no one ever commented on it, so I stopped worrying about it. A part of me wanted someone, anyone, to notice, to ask. I was desperate for someone to save me. I just barely graduated, than I flunked out after two years of university. I lied to everyone about it, went to school every day but never to class.

One night, it was a few days before Christmas, I was sitting in my room, on the floor, my back to the door, cutting my wrists with a razor blade. I’ve been so scared, I honestly thought I was going to kill myself and for the first time I realized that no matter how badly I wanted the pain to stop, I didn’t want to die. I was crying and bleeding. On the mirror by my door I wrote in blood, “HELP ME, SAVE ME”. I went to the bathroom to get gauze and my mother was there. I hugged her and showed her my wrist, I couldn’t talk, I didn’t know what to say. She made me promise to get help and we never discussed it again.

I called a suicide counseling line. You leave your name and number and they call you back to make an appointment. It took my about a month to get up the courage to call that line. They never called back. I had been dating this guy at the time for about a year, so I told him. He was as fucked up as I was, just in a different way. Another person who knew who would never talk about it. My fear of someone knowing changed into a fear of no one caring. I understand now that they didn’t know what to do any more than I did, but I’m still a little angry with them for it. I’ve long since broken up with him, he started getting heavily into drugs and thankfully I had enough self-preservation left to know that I didn’t need or want to be attached to anybody like that.

At 20 I decided I had to stop cutting, that I had to get better. But I was so scared. I’m not sure what scared me more, not getting better and always being like that or getting better and not being able to fall back on cutting. Cutting was almost my sole coping method, I didn’t know any other way. The fear held me in a state of paralysis for two years. I still cut but not as frequently.

When I was 22, I was accepted into college preparation for nursing. I started seeing a school councilor. It doesn’t sound like that big a step but I had to call on all the courage I possessed to make an appointment and actually go. She taught me relaxation exercises, positive thinking, and most importantly didn’t make light of what I was feeling. On top of that I was in the top of my class that year.

I saw the school counselor for about six months, but I knew it wasn’t enough. My fear of never getting better overcame my fear of getting better so I went to my family doctor. He prescribed antidepressants, but after another six months I knew that wasn’t enough, either. So he sent me to a psychiatrist. My psychiatrist diagnosed me with depression and borderline personality disorder. I’m not sure why, but having a name to put to how I felt helped. After he assessed me, he sent me to someone else, who sent me to someone else. It was very difficult to keep going because I felt very rejected and helpless. When a program finally decided they could help me they wanted me to attend group for six hours a day. I had just started my third year of my five-year program and there was no way I was taking a term off, so it was another nine months before I went.

Group was an interesting experience. I felt guilty for being there all the time because I felt the other group members needed help so much more than me. I had learned to hide my depression and dysfunction so effectively I hid even from myself. I went for five weeks of the six-week program before they kicked me out. They said I wasn’t trying hard enough. How ironic, abandon the patient with major abandonment issues. I did learn a lot of valuable lessons in the behavioral therapy portion of my sessions that I find very useful, so all wasn’t lost. They told me I could come back in six months but I know I won't, I’ll never go back there. They gave up on me. I guess part of me is still looking for a savior.

I’m 26 now and I don’t cut anymore in the literal meaning of the word. But I still find interesting ways to make myself bleed that leave no scars on occasion, and I still hate myself for it. I am far from all better but I know I’m on my way.

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Discussions

Christy (Oct 1, 2002): I thought it was a very good story about her feeling and I am glad she told someone about it well it was a very good one!!

Mallika (Oct 3, 2002): I just wanted to say that what you have been doing is something that I used to do when I would get depressed. However, I discovered that it was something wrong and I was only harming myself and looking for sympathy. I also wanted someone to "SAVE" me. It really doesn't work that way. You have to try to get over your own problems or whatever it is that is causing you to harm yourself. You have to realize that the only person who can actually help you is yourself. God has gifted you Life and what are you showing him in return? You have to realize that there are millions of people out there with problems that are ever worse than the problems that you have. Some are handicapped, some are starving and some have no family at all. Just be thankful to God for Life and Enjoy this Gift that he has given you while you have it. Don't try to take it away from yourself. I hope you overcome what ever is causing you to have these problems and hope you live a happy life.

Sandy (Jan 17, 2004): What a sad story of neglect. The worst of all is that there is seemingly no "cure" for us. I too have found group therapy to be of no help. And when I see the problem in someone else's life, I don't know what would be a solution for them. Perhaps finding someone with the same problem and trying desperately to find and provide what it is that they need, I will find what it is that I need. Sometimes I come to this site and read about the difficulties others are experiencing so that I will not feel so alone in my problems.

Hikaru (Feb 1, 2004): I thought that the story was very sad.

Anonymous (April 4, 2004): Very sad story, indeed. She should not give up. Finding the right doc, the right therapist and the right meds is like trying on blue jeans. They are all blue jeans, but none are cut the same, so some fit better than others. Excellent work getting into and finishing nursing school. What an accomplishment. You should make a list of your accomplishments (big and small) and keep them with your razors so you can remember the triumphs you have - and believe me: YOU are triumphant! You are a survivor. You are the one who has not given up. YOU are the one who will find the answer. What an awesome and strong mix of character and courage. You go girl!

Shantel (June 5, 2004): I'm only 13 yrs old and I feel happy for her. She learning to cope and learning she is not alone and that people like me do care.

Kris 10/26: I'm hoping I find strength too. I've always believed that I'm weak. But so many things happened in my young life and I managed to survive. Something worse happened again this time. I hope I'd heal soon. I'm glad I read your story. I pray everything will go well for you

Tosh 3/10/06: I think that it takes great courage to stop cutting,i used to be a cutter and now after being caught from the scars i bear, i changed to burning. i have tried stopping,but when you have mixed emotions,mania with depression,you have to vent,heres to you,keep it up dont cut and dont look back.

Sara 7/7/06: I have to say thank you for having this available to read. That felt like a personal account. It's a relief sometimes to realize that i'm not completely alone. I stopped. But i'm at a point where i need to forgive everyone for not... noticing when they saw.

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Christy Werner

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