It’s a cacophonous word. Harsh syllables to match the act: cutting.
I cut my ankles and my wrists, occasionally my hip. I would say I self-harm, but that’s romanticizing it. I’ve hurt and worried way too many people since they found out after I finally asked for help.
Choose to be a victor, not a victim
Being a victor doesn’t mean you never had a hardship or experienced a low point. What separates a victor from a victim is a victim chooses to give up when waters get rough.
Am I a victim of self-harm? I guess I could be, but my mentality is to choose otherwise.
November has always been one of those satisfying months for me because I get to challenge myself with attempting to finish my novel I hope to publish one day. However, this November has paralyzed me with a parasitic feeling of anguish, and writing has been the least-important thing on my mind.
Even though I personally asked for help in early November, it was a rash decision. I knew everything would change in a matter of hours, but I never thought through what would happen.
I had never been in a place so dark. I made empty promises to guidance counselors and teachers I knew I couldn’t keep. Yes, I said, I won’t cut myself anymore. I won’t do it tonight.
After hours of distracting myself, I would cave. The cutting got worse. There suddenly was no mentality of stopping.
There were more cuts; they were longer, deeper. Both ankles and both wrists and a few more on my hips.
But the good thing was, I asked for help. Every day, I count my blessings that when I walked into my third-block sociology class back on Sept. 3, I ended up having a semi-permanent substitute teacher who I never realized would have such an impact on my personal well-being.
Would I have asked for help if I didn’t have a teacher whom I could relate to, or one who made my day? Sure, teaching the curriculum and really knowing the material is one thing, but teaching is so much more. Any teacher who makes students feel like they have an ally at school deserves to remain employed there.
The problem is, until I asked for help, my self-demise was invisible. I’ve perfected my smile, I’ve steadied my voice and I carried on like I was fine.
To me, it didn’t matter if I was OK as long as others were. Since a young age, my mind has been wired in reverse. No matter how old you are, I’m supposed to care about you. You are not supposed to care about me.