The Urge... Once Again

It’s been a little over three years since the last time I held up a blade to my skin, but the past few weeks, I cannot stop thinking about it. That sharp cold metal on my skin. A cut deep enough to burn, to hurt, to bleed, yet not enough to require anyone else’s intrusion to my moment of power over myself. My body itches for that relief every waking hour. I’m constantly seeking the power to refrain from giving into that addiction.

I miss it. I miss the power of knowing what is coming. Knowing that I control that pain. I decide where the pain will be, I know where it will hurt, I know at what moment in time I will feel that burn, or that cut and only I control when it stops. That power is something that cannot be controlled in the day-to-day life. Rather, I am abruptly slapped with an overwhelming emotion of sadness, of anxiety, of anger. But worst of all, loneliness.

I am surrounded by many wonderful people in my life. A husband who adores me, yet I feel unworthy of his love. Friends who care, yet I cannot help but feel like a burden if I voice my pain. A family that loves deeply, yet I have never given them the opportunity to learn of my scars.

I know that I have shown my friends and family different versions of myself, but I cannot give a single person that power to hurt me, even if they have shown nothing but love and care. And I know that this is a weakness of mine. But I cannot help it.

For the past few years, things got better. Things were stable. I went months without an anxiety attack, I fell in love, I got married, I excelled at my job, and at times, I even felt proud of myself. I felt that I was on the right path. But now, it’s hard again. Nothing happened to trigger it. It just came crawling back bit by bit, sneaking up on me.

At first, I began to feel a burden on my friends, but maintained a smile, continued to laugh when I’m supposed to, went out as if that feeling did not exist, socialized until I couldn’t. My friends needed me, to listen, to give advice, to help them through their problems. I even complained about the meaningless issues, work, an insignificant argument, in hope that venting out the inconsequential matters, I would somehow feel better. But I never did. It just kept piling up on the inside, until one day I just couldn’t get out of bed. I couldn’t get myself to go to work. I couldn’t get myself up to shower. I just stayed in bed. I cried when no one was looking. My husband would check-in on me, make sure I’m alright and I’d write it off as exhaustion or headache or anything else. I still do.

I know he knows that something is wrong, and he tried so hard to get me to open up, but I can’t. How do you explain to your partner all those terrible thoughts? How do I tell him that all that goes through my mind is the craving of a blade running across my wrists? How do I explain that I no longer feel a connection with anyone, including him, for no apparent reason? How do I explain that I feel constant loneliness? That he and all those in my life would be better off without me? That he deserves so much better than this. Than me.

With him, I began to lose the connection in steps. At first I lost my sex drive, but I kept going; had sex but felt uncomfortable. I had sex and I wasn’t interested. I had sex and felt nothingness. He doesn’t know. Why should he suffer the consequences of my lack of interest when he has done nothing but be loving? Bit by bit, that began to be my norm. And on days when I couldn’t fake my interest, I had a headache, or was feeling nauseous, or in pain. He keeps trying to help. Some days when I’m in bed, he comes in and holds me tight, to remind me that I am safe, that I am loved. But on those days, I still feel broken. I still feel lost.

While they don’t know it, there are two people in my life today that have kept me from picking up that blade. My husband and a friend, I guess. Both of whom at one point I’ve opened up to about parts of my past that relate to self-harm, but what they don’t know is that while I am not putting that knife to my skin, it’s all I think about. That while my husband and I watch a movie, all I can think about are places in my body he won’t see if I cut. That while I sit with my friend, smoke our shishas, all I wonder is if I cut my wrists will she notice the bandage underneath my watch.

It was easy before anyone knew. I cut. I said I fell and wrapped my wrists. I wore long sleeve shirts. I hurt my legs. I cut my stomach. But now my body is exposed. My openness crippled my ability to let go of this pain in the way I know how.

This urge to cut is increasing, itching more and more each day and quite honestly I don’t know how long my need to hide the scars will override the want to cut.