the end of a streak

Trigger warning: self-harm

I have been clean for almost five months now. Today, I failed.

You never really know the extent of the damage you’ve done until after you’re done doing it. It wasn’t until I was washing the blood away that I’ve realized just what I did. I know it sounds like so cliche, but maybe I’m too much of a mess to be aware. I do not know, to be honest. This isn’t the first time.

Weird thing, though: I do not regret it. I can’t even feel the pain. Maybe later it’ll make itself known. But for now, I feel relief. Jesus fucking Christ, how the fuck did I even learn to cope this way? I’ve been cutting myself since I was 14. It’s been 8 years now and I’m nowhere near getting better. Five months could’ve been my longest streak.

Maybe tomorrow I’d win. Today, I lose.

Confession

Trigger warning: self-harm, suicide, depression

I recently read a friend’s (not sure if it’s mutual) blog posts on his battles with depression and anxiety. As is the inevitable, it took me to a place and time I  would really rather forget. I don’t blame him or anything, though. In fact, I think I needed that “test”. I needed to know how far I’ve come and how much more healing I need to do.

I realized something after reading the posts: I’ve never really spoken about my own experiences. I mean, sure, I’ve always been vocal about how I struggle with depression but that’s just about it. The conversation generated around mental health that even I perpetuate revolve around recovery. We celebrate the victory of the scars but no one ever talks about the ugliness of the wounds.

His entry “I’m a good person” kicked me in the gut. Suddenly I’m back in 2018, reliving the worst year of my life. I recognized the loneliness, the weight of the hollow, the terror – I’ve looked depression in the eye for years, was in its clutch for as long as I can remember. I’ve been in the dark long enough to see.

On October 3, 2018, I woke up early. 4 AM, I remember clearly. And I remember just thinking, “This is my last day,”. It was a Wednesday, and instead of wearing pink, I was ready to wear a noose around my neck.

I was already at my lowest. Three months prior, I went through an ugly breakup. I quit review for the board exams and for almost two month, refused to go out of the house. I had already attempted to overdose August of that year; I ended up in a hospital. I was under suicide watch for the next couple of months, and the shame it brought me is unmatched. The voices I have tried to keep silent inside my head were screaming how heavy of a burden I am to my family; I was useless, I would never amount to anything, everything was my fault, I will end up alone, my family resents me for what I’ve done, I am better off dead. That day was the culmination of every trauma, every pain, everything I’ve went through. It was all too much.

I was already full of scars and wounds. My self-harming knew no bounds. I cut myself to distract my thoughts from the hollowness. It was as if everything had collapsed, and the very thing my walls had been protecting turned out to be nothing, so I must distract myself. Cuts in thighs, arms, torso, wherever I could reach – my clothes were bloodied, each movement shooting pain through my body. It was perfect.

Everything was set. I was almost ready. I wasn’t even crying anymore. There’s just one thing I had to do before I finally free myself. I called my mom. I told her I love her. I had barely finished when she started crying. “Bal-an ko ano himuon mo. Hindi lang nak, please. Hindi lang. Hindi ibilin si Mama please nak.” I broke down. I cried on the phone, lying on the floor for hours.

At about 4 PM, I found the strength to get up. I took a shower for the first time in almost two weeks. I hadn’t eaten for a week, living only on water, and I was hungry. I went out, went to the market, brought ingredients for fried chicken. I brought Coke on the way home. I cooked, I ate, watched Steven Universe on the couch with my dog in my lap. It was a life back from the dead. I cried again, hugging my dog Rocket. I fell asleep on the couch and when I woke up, Rocket was snuggling beside me. For the first time in the longest time, my heart was full.

I’ve never spoken about this out loud, save for a couple of friends. October 5th of this year, we went to the beach to celebrate my 1st “birthday”. Who I am now is not far from who I was October last year, but I’ve made progress. I went to therapy and was medicated. I traveled a lot and decided to face my fear of the sea. I got into law school. I met people.

I still have my bad days. I’ve succumbed to my self-harming tendencies at least twice; I am just five months clean now. I refuse to participate in life at times, locking myself up. I still emotionally shut down, still have bad coping mechanisms. But I am moving. I am feeling. And sure, the hollow might never be truly filled, but I am willing to try. What more could I lose?

I Self-Harm

I self-harm.
And no, it isn’t about creating dramas for attention.
No, I’m not doing for the sake of popularity, for coolness.
No, it isn’t romantic.
I self-harm.
Not because I want to die,
But because I want to live.
I self-harm.
Not because I want to get hurt,
But because I want to be relieved.
I self-harm
Because I want to feel
I self-harm because the bite of the blade
Into my flesh is the only
Link to reality that I have
I self-harm
Because I am so damaged that I need to see my blood flow
To convince myself that I am still alive
That I’m breathing
That I exist
That I am still human
Warm with flesh and bones and blood
Not the dead rotting corpse I feel inside.
I self-harm
Because I am a destructive force and
I don’t want to leave debris trailing in my wake
I’d rather hurt myself.
I self-harm
Because it’s the only drug I can have
To keep me sane me as I continue to breathe.
So..
To the person who thought that cutting her wrist and showing it off
To gain the sympathy of others is the
Sure fire way to be popular and cool
You never fooled me.
That isn’t the face of depression.
That’s a narcissist hiding behind the mask of self-mutilation.
Do you want to know how it really looks like?
It looks like blades and cutters hidden in the back of the drawers
It looks like clothes stained with blood and tears
It looks like long sleeves in the summer
And pants in the beach
It’s the shame you feel
Every time you think of how weak you are.
It isn’t about your boyfriend kissing your wrists
Telling you how beautiful you are in his eyes
No. You are not beautiful.
Not in the way they say anyway.
Because you are scarred with your lost battles with your demons.
The only way you can be beautiful is when
You survive and look back and glow
With pride as you think of how strong you’ve become.
Don’t get me wrong.
You are still whole, you are still unique, you are still wonderful
And believe me, your wounds will heal and close
But the ugly scars will forever stay
In places only you can see.