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Home > Personal Stories > Beth

Beth

Copyright Beth

For a long time, I didnt know that a lot of the things I do were self-destructive or self-harming. I had never been a cutter and I thought that my wishes to be hurt or really really sick were just attention-getting thoughts. Not that I ever shared them with anyone, so i didnt get attention for having them. But I guess it was drilled into me as a child by my grandmother that I wasnt allowed to be sick. She always called me a hypocondriac if I had a cold and didnt feel better by the second day. I never told my grandmother if I was hurt physically, I'm not entirely sure why. I did some pretty stupid things as a kid, so it was natural that I got hurt a time or two. Like when I tried jumping from a stack of boards into a garage of a house that was being built in my neighborhood. I "forgot" or didnt realize that the garage had an overhang and I slammed my forehead into it at full jumping speed... lol. Or the time I stepped on a nail, screamed "Oh Sh*t!", then brought my other foot down onto another nail. I hobbled home with each foot tied up in a sock. But I never told my grandmother about it. So I guess I wasnt really looking for attention. Those are silly examples, I realize, but it illustrates my point I hope that I am not and have never been a hypocondriac.

My grandparents adopted me when I was 9. They stopped being grandparents and became very strict and judgemental parents. I was terrified of my grandmother's displeasure. She never hit me, but she had a tone of voice that could freeze me in my tracks and make me feel 1 inch tall. My grandfather didnt make much of an impression on me as I was growing up. My grandmother was always the focus of attention.

I think that my grandmother is at the root of a lot of my self-destructiveness. I think I felt invalidated by her. She didnt believe me when I was sick. She would tell me how I felt if I did tell her I didn't feel well. "You are feeling better, I can tell" That's what I would hear on the second day of a cold. By the third day, she would tell me I was a hypocondriac. When I was told at 16 that I had to have surgery on my sinuses, I was thrilled that a doctor had actually diagnosed something tangible, something that my grandmother couldnt deny. I looked forward to the surgery because it was "real". It meant that I was real, I suppose. Also when I was 16, I stopped eating. It lasted for a whole summer. It was horrible. The thought of food would make me physically sick to my stomach. To this day, I am not sure what sparked it, but it still happens. I'm in that kind of phase right now. I cant eat, and if i do eat , I get sick to my stomach.

It didnt matter what age I was, whether still a child, or after I was married, or even after I was divorced and diagnosed as bi-polar that was the response I got from her, no matter what was wrong. When I started having panic attacks, that was what I heard from her, when I was depressed she would tell me when I was depressed or feeling better. She would tell me to "snap out of it". To this day, that phrase infuriates me, no matter who i hear it from. To this day, my grandmother tries to tell me how I feel.

The worst of my self-destructiveness started after my divorce. I used to wish I would get Toxic-Shock syndrome from tampons. I drank while taking different antidepressants, even though I knew it would make me feel worse emotionally. I smoked pot, again, even though I knew I would feel much worse afterwards. I constantly wished to be hit by cars, or get into car accidents. I never tried to make that happen, but i wished hard for it. I was sexually active, and though it was always "safe-sex" it was very harmful to my self-esteem at times.

Most of my self-destructiveness was in the form of thoughts until this year. This year, something changed. This year, I started cutting and burning and doing all kinds of things to induce physical pain. Sometimes it was to relieve emotional pain, to control the feelings inside, to bury them. Sometimes, it was to make me feel "real" when I was numb and empty.

When it first started, early in the year, I didnt try to hide it. To me it was a symbol that there was something going very wrong in my life, even if I couldnt identify what the "wrong" was. I felt I needed it to be seen so that my doctor or therapist would help me. The more I needed help, it seemed the less available it was. That help still isnt available, no one seems to know how to help me. My psychiatrist told me flat out that he couldnt help me and that I should call my therapist. The two attempts of suicide that I made were cries for help when help didnt seem available. "If there's no help, then let me go". I still get that way sometimes simply out of desperation.

I started hearing from my family that I "wear it as a badge". Again, like I am a hypocondriac. I started hiding it from everyone but my therapist. It scares me terribly, but when the urge hits me, it's so hard to keep myself from doing it. At first, I had no control of it at all. If the thought entered my head, I had to cut or burn or whatever. I've been gradually gaining some control over it, but only when the urges start slow. I can fight them when the thoughts come one at a time, I can put off doing what I want to do. Eventually, the urges fade and it's like they were never there, until the next time. It's when the thoughts/urges come on out of nowhere, fast and furious, that I have a hard time controlling my actions. It's like I dont have time to prepare myself. I dont even want to "not want to", if that makes any sense.

I've asked my therapist many times over the years, "How do I make myself want to stop wanting to be self-destructive"? As of yet, I havent gotten a good answer for this question . The best my therapist has come up with is that "Cutting just isnt an option for you". That doesnt help me at all. Mainly because when the desire to hurt is there, it seems to be the only option. It's like saying "Just say no". Easier said than done.

© 2002 Ratatosk

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