Self-harm

Since nobody real reads this blog and I know my imaginary readers won’t mind, I thought I’d just switch languages and deliver today’s issue of pointless posts in the English original, although I’m sure it’s full of mistakes. I wrote this to an English language forum a while ago. A lot has happened since then to make my relationship to self-harm much more complex than it used to be. For example, on several recent occasions have people screwed the promise out of me to stop cutting entirely, including my therapist, the doctors upon my discharge from the mental hospital, my mother….

It hadn’t been until a few weeks ago that anybody really found out that I cut. Let’s say a hospitalisation can raise a lot of dust. However, I have kept my promise since then not to do it.

Anyway, this is how I used to feel about self-harm. And its times like this when I’m really low that I start to miss it.

I cut myself last night. It has been the first time in, I don’t know, a year maybe. The idea just leapt to my mind and the notion felt totally familiar, as if I had never stopped. I took a new razorblade from the package and freed it from the envelope. A sterile best friend from a box, untouched by another human hand, always there when you needed it. Cutting never became a daily routine for me, but in the time I was doing it regularly, this shiny piece of steel meant more to me than anything anybody said or did in an attempt to make me feel better; no matter how weird and twisted it may sound.

Ms. Sharp and I were solving problems our way. And if solving means pushing them away for a while, we were at least as successful as those morons who called themselves therapists. Back then I was a minor and mum wouldn’t allow me to be put on medication. She always accused me of „overacting“ anyway. The peculiar thing is, I never mentioned self harm in behavioural therapy.

Now I have a brand-new six centimetre cut on my left thigh. And it felt as releasing as ever, giving you a reprieve to sit back and let go for a moment. I placed it right next to the old scars, so in a way I’m continuing where I stopped.

I don’t know why I did it yesterday of all days. Three days ago my dose of Citalopram was raised to 60mg and that means I’ve arrived at the suggested maximum dosage for this medication. I don’t mean to say that it doesn’t work, I felt awesome for a while; more than awesome even. But I’ve had the feeling recently that things were going downhill again and that’s why my psych adjusted the dosage.
Actually I’m pleasantly surprised by the lack of physical side effects I seem to experience. Thus far, I’ve not become fat and impotent. Maybe those 60mg are going to patch up some of the remaining cracks in my mind for the time being. Since it is normal to experience a worsening of one’s condition in the time following a dosage increase, I think that’s why I felt so fucked up yesterday. I guess I’ll be better by tomorrow, and if not then by next week… or so I hope.