Aged 14. I was sitting on my bed and reached for a safety pin. It made no sense, I didn't understand what I was doing, but I knew it was the right thing to do. Everything that I couldn't let anyone else know came rushing out with that first cut. At the time I thought I wanted to kill myself. The superficial scratches I was making on my wrist and forearm wouldn't have come close to doing the job. I knew this, and identified it as weakness – a lack of courage. Years later, I understood that it had served the opposite purpose to what I told myself I was doing; instead of trying to die, I had found a perverted way to survive. It was never a perfect solution, but it was the best thing I had at the time.

I didn't have a good reason to do any of this. I wasn't abused like so many others. I don't come from a broken home. Nothing traumatic from my formative years. Others kids were horrible to me at school and I haven't ever felt that another person really understands me, but what kind of rationale is that? Years of tormenting from outside sources turned inward. Everything they said didn't make sense. I knew I wasn't in the wrong, that I was just an easy target, but since the same kinds of information kept coming in from so many different sources, I eventually started to think that it must all have been true. Whoever came up with that saying about 'sticks and stones' has no idea what they were talking about.

The first few times I cut myself, it was out of absolute desperation. I didn't know why I was doing it, and my understandable fear and confusion compounded an already distressing period. I devised flimsy excuses and cover-ups as my habit worsened, accessing over the next 4 years disposable razors, X-acto knives, box cutters, serrated blades, and pocket knives. I grew more introverted as time progressed, but somehow no one suspected anything.

Aged 15. By this time, my urge to die was significantly diminished. Cutting was something that I couldn't admit I enjoyed, but couldn't seem to stop. The cycle of brief pleasure and then immediate shame and disgust fueled my practice. When I found out that my parents were having problems that my mother wouldn't go into the details of, I did some sleuthing and found out about my father's infidelity. Here was dealt a double blow; not only had he betrayed my mother, but they both wouldn't trust in me. I vowed to remain steadfast and keep my secret. In a moment of rage and self-preservation I tell my mother that if they decide to go to family therapy, I'm not coming. I pretend it's because I'm angry at her, but I just don't want to be found out. As the oldest child, I had always felt the pressure to above average. This was never overtly impressed upon me by anyone other than myself, and a lifetime of strict discipline from the commitment to my own high standard served me well in my decision to keep my destructive habit hidden. It wasn't until the following fall that I was discovered.

Aged 16. I'm helping my mother unpack groceries. I reach to put away something in the cupboard. I use the wrong hand, my sleeve slips, and everything I've worked so hard to conceal is undone. There were so many times I'd considered telling someone, that I'd tried to "accidentally" slip up and let them see. This was a true accident. She didn't understand and reacted out a desire to protect her child. I was confused, embarrassed, furious. I was told that if I didn't come to the ER willingly, that she would call an ambulance. It's the night before my first paper is due at my new school. I have an overwhelming desire to live up to what I believe everyone expects from me, but what is really what I expect from myself. My head is spinning with "what-if" thoughts. I won't have time to finish the assignment, but what if they decide to commit me? At the hospital, two doctors are rude and dismissive. Because I don't know what to do, I decide to remain silent. They are irritable at this, and talk to my mother like I'm not in the room. They tell her that it's all very superficial and not to be worried over. This practice has grown to mean something to me. It's something I do very well. I've found some outlet of control in the midst of many circumstances I can't have power over. And, I hold myself to impossibly high standards. This dismissal twists into a personal blow. I'm more determined than ever. My parents make me go to a shrink who's no better than the ER doctors. I go twice, she tries to play power games with me, and I realize I understand myself better through several nights of internet research than she does with numerous degrees. I have no respect for this woman and don't go back. My family skirts the issue and I am checked on frequently while alone in my room for the next few weeks. I continue to cut, partly because I want to, partly because I know that other people don't want me to.

The following spring. For my end of term English Lit paper, we are assigned a personal project. You have to research some facet of yourself. Everyone knows that the more dark days you can discuss, the more likely you are to get an outstanding grade. I honestly can't think of anything else that anyone might want to read about, so while my best friend researches her secret abortion and subsequent drug habit, I do more research on cutting. I already know that other people do the same thing that I do, but I am surprised to find that this anonymous connection through poorly written personal accounts is somehow comforting. The one thing that still weighs heavily on my mind is the fact that everyone else has some sort of early-life trauma. I start to wonder about repressed memories, but can't believe that such a thing exists. For all the community I've found, I still feel very alone. However, it's the first time I think I might want to stop. I get an A on the paper and a call from the guidance counselor. I brush her off on the phone, and my mother, who is sitting in the same room, doesn't suspect a thing. A couple months later I walk in from music lessons and am confronted in the front hall. My mother, while "cleaning", came across a notebook she "thought was her own". My paper "fell" out and she "accidentally" read part of it. The entire first page was an extended quotation, so I am even more suspicious. She makes my go to my GP, who recommends another therapist. This neo-hippy allows me to lie to her for the next two years. During this time I tell a few close friends what I've been doing. Letting out what I feel in a new way proves to be tremendously helpful over time.

The fall of my senior year I pick up a series of drug habits. Partly, I'm bored and need to pass time. Partly, I'm looking for a new and exciting way to distract my mind from considering thoughts and feelings that are too overwhelming to deal with. I very much enjoy some of the more tame options and continue to use them for a long period of time, and briefly dabble in hard drugs. My dealer pays off his debts and gets out of the business. I'm upset about this, but later realize that it was a turning point that came at just the right time.

Over the next two years, I slowly begin to cut less frequently. It wasn't by choice, it just happened. I began to realize that it wasn't working in the same way it used to, that it didn't provide any sort of release anymore for me. After this, quitting is easier. Without the pleasure aspect, my disgust is strong enough to cut less. I have a few spikes during times of mental unrest or high stress. It's not until my third year of college that I really feel I've given up this habit.

There are other lasting, subtler aspects to this story. To this day, my head continuously spins much faster than I can speak or write, let alone make think coherently. I go over possible scenarios for hours, planning each possible outcome to the minutest detail. It sometimes helps to write things out, to make lists so I don't forget anything. I worry about silly things, tell myself it's not worth the time, but can't seem to stop. The noise makes it incredibly difficult to concentrate on any one thing and lowers my productivity, especially on high-stress days. I can't sleep through the night, and wake up at least four times on a normal night.
Another thing that bothers me most today is my total lack of belief that I have any ability to function in a social situation. Part of my grand defense mechanism involved shutting down my emotions to the best of my ability. It was impossible to eliminate them, but over time I got very good at controlling my response to a situation. I deadened myself as much as possible to the world. During the time when I realized that cutting wasn't my answer anymore, I didn't really realize that this emotional block would prove troublesome, or that it was even something to be considered. Failed intimate relationships were ended in large part due to the fact that I think I'm lying to myself when a chance of a connection exists. Physical contact is generally a trigger for a fight-or-flight response, much to the amusement and bewilderment of people who don't know that I'm not be touched. The mental and emotional walls I set up translated to physical barriers and an automatic reaction to any breach of them.

The other remnant, though I'm not entirely sure how it fits in, is my rampant trichotillomania (TTM). I have memories of this dating back to early childhood, when I would twist a clump of hair around my finger and sometimes pull a patch out at a time, eating several strands. Today, the routine is different. My earliest solid memory of the way it is today is aged 12. I had dyed my hair blue, and the carpet is tinted from all the stray hairs that have been discarded around the area I'm sitting. I comb them together with my fingers, twist them to minimize the size of the ball, and throw them away so that no one will know. I pull one strand at a time, and if I eat it, it's after chewing it into pieces so small that I can't feel them in my mouth anymore. I like to play with the strands in my fingers, and twist them around my teeth. Some have a hard root or a large fleshy part at the base, both of which are delightful. Around age 17 I get frustrated with this habit and try to cure myself by cutting my hair short. It works for a week, but someone points out a couple bald patches. They don't know what I've been doing, but I am mortified. My resolve to stop is raised, so my inability to give it up is exponentially more distressing. I had written about this habit in the very end of the paper my mother discovered. The neo-hippy let me lie to her about this, too. She believes, or pretends to believe, that everything is fine and that I am cured. I secretly try a few self-help therapies over the next 4 years and eventually, near the end of my first year out of college, seek the help that I know I need. It is slightly successful over the course of two months, and I see a small light at the end of the tunnel. I am equipped with the tools I need to succeed; the test now will be using them.

I've always felt older than I am, slightly apart, and not suited for what many consider a well-rounded life. I hate re-discovering how vulnerable I can be, and due to what stimuli. One of my greatest fears is that someone else will not only find all this out, but also get clued-in to my thinking patterns and peg me for the mess that I usually feel I am. Underneath all the self-deprecation is the knowledge that there's something worthwhile in me. Any perceived attack on this sliver of hope is devastating, and always on a scale that alarms me. No one can take me as low as I can, but when they get close, whether it's deliberately or without knowing, it really hurts.