Since I hate lying,
I definitely cut again (and again and again), but I also want to say that something positive came out of this first week: I’m reaching out for help. I’m planning on calling the counseling center for group therapy recommendations, and I’m calling my therapist back in California tomorrow. She made me sign a non-suicide and non-self-harm contract when we first started our sessions, and I broke that contract multiple times. I’ve broken it, because I have moments when I’m full of self-hate and anger at my lack of control. Hurting myself physically is easier than being honest with myself and getting things done the hard way (aka controllable discipline, concentration, and other characteristics I envy in other people).
What made me stop today was a Skype call to a friend who left my school. Whenever I have an encounter with my mental disorders, my mind often wanders to her, because we are not that different. I might as well have left like her if it weren’t for my beautiful friends, and she might still be here if she had friends as wonderful as mine. She understands my addiction to hurting myself, and she told me for her it’s been a few years of doing it, stopping, and relapsing again. That’s when I gulped and saw the omens. I know I may very well be cutting for years and years if I don’t deal with it now, because I’m already hooked into this cycle of cutting myself, feeling great, getting shit done, and then crying myself to sleep at night out of guilt as I think about the possibility of people finding out.
Why do I feel guilty? If I killed myself from suicide, everyone in my school, everyone back home, and everyone I interacted with online will feel guilt. But I’m alive, and my fresh cuts are going to make people feel uncomfortable, which makes me mentally apologize, “Sorry, that you had to see this.” That’s what happened in lab this week, when I wore my short sleeve shirt, because the weather was just so beautiful that day. The teachers saw them as I acted more upfront than usual (because I developed this strange “Fuck everyone else” vibe since I started), and my friend freaked out. No more short sleeves for a while.
And just as I don’t want to bare my scars anymore, I want to end on a more optimistic note: the weather’s clearing up, I’m going to tutoring, I’m doing readings for class, I’m working in the library, I have plans for next semester. I no longer have to escape to the warm rooms of the greenhouse. I also thank myself for identifying this addiction and understand that breaking this cutting thing will be a day to day process, if not a fight. Even though the thought of staying at this school feels like a death sentence sometimes, I do have my bouts of optimism and appreciation for being here. Like today, they tossed Caesar for us and served pesto pasta for dinner. Yum.