Part of my self-directed series for my Spring 2022 art class.
I would like to begin by saying that I do not condone self-harm or suicide and you should consult a professional when seeking medical or mental health advice. Nothing stated here is meant to act as or replace professional treatment.
I don't remember the exact reason why I started cutting myself. I was struggling with identity issues, I was very lonely, my life went through some dramatic changes in the span of a few years, I was depressed - I'm sure these all contributed in some way in addition to some other factors I may be forgetting. I grew up in an environment where death was kind of normalized; both of my parents were veterinarians and it was just something I came to see as a part of life. Of course when I was really young losing a pet or seeing a character die in a movie made me cry, but I feel like I stopped feeling sad about it earlier than most. I honestly think the number of vividly sad memories I made after the age of five are very few. I really had to make an effort to make myself sad most of the time.
High school is when my depression first started setting in. It wasn't the sad kind of depression, I was more numb than anything else. It was kind of like I wanted to feel sad, but my body wasn't capable of it. This is around the time I started cutting, I think. I had pulled a serrated metal blade out of a tape dispenser I had found, and even though it wasn't extremely sharp I still managed to get deep enough to draw blood. The sensation was addictively bittersweet, with the bite of the teeth sinking into my skin and watching small beads of crimson ooze spill from the marks. It was like a release of something that had been building for years. I liked the feeling of the rough, scratchy scars they left behind as they healed, even if they did sting a bit. They made me look as broken on the outside as I felt on the inside, and I took a strange comfort in that. It was probably the closest I had gotten to feeling sad in a long time, and I craved it. I longed for the intense emotion, or anything that didn't leave me feeling numb, so I started triggering myself on purpose just to get a rush. Sometimes I would hit myself or thrash some part of myself against a wall when things got really intense. The pain felt like it was the only thing that could help keep me grounded. I would do this over and over until it no longer had any effect. I knew I was dealing with my depression in a very unhealthy way, but it would always keep calling out to me, enticing me to come back again and again to its rest in its bittersweet melancholy embrace. And I was willing to accept it.
I've gotten better at regulating my emotions since then. I'm not always in control, but it's definitely improved and I don't self-harm anymore. My medication helps me regulate my mood, but I'm not cured. I still have periods where that sweet voice will sing a little louder, guiding me down to nestle into it. It’s strange though, how I still don’t want that to go away. It’s been present for so long that it’s kind of attached itself to me. I still have memories that are deeply rooted in my depression that I hold very close to me, memories that have shaped who I am. I wouldn't say they're bad memories, it's more like the pain is part of what makes them so special. I feels as if I were to let myself forget about these feelings that I’ll be forgetting pieces of myself as well. But wouldn’t letting go be better than holding on? What would I gain if I just allowed myself to let go of the pain behind these memories? That should be what I want, right? I should want to get better.
But I just can't seem to find the will to go through with it. I'm not even sure I would want to go through with it. In a certain way, the depression makes me feel a little more... human.
