Punching Holes... My Journey Into (and Out of) Self-harm
Light fades.
Saltwater flows.
Grief consumes.
Punching holes.
Desperately searching.
Freezing cold.
Feelings burn.
Punching holes.
Reaching out.
Tired soul.
Blood beads.
Punching holes.
Darkness falls.
Misery grows.
Going mad.
Punching holes.
Mind screaming.
Seeing sheol.
Now insane.
Punching holes.
Prayers uttered.
Thunder rolls.
Clouds shift.
Punching holes.
Rising up.
Climbing slow.
Crying less.
Punching holes.
Light peeks.
Igniting coals.
Quiet now,
Punching holes.
Pain drops.
Reality holds.
No longer
Punching holes.
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“Punching holes”. That’s what i called it.
I would huddle in a small out of the way space with a safety pin and jab holes into my wrist... right along the vein. I watched the blood pool. I remember the first time I did it, but I don’t remember where the notion came from. I had a safety pin. I had a wrist. It seemed like the thing to do at the time. I was very occupied with the sight of my own blood. It was so.... RED. Never one of my favorite colors... but I liked the sight of mine, right then, in that moment... and for many moments like it for a long time afterwards.
Someone referred to it as trying to kill the pain on the inside, buy hurting myself on the outside. That seems to me to be an over-simplification, but it was accurate. I did it to my right wrist a couple of times, then my mom saw the scabs that looked like I had scraped myself on a fence and asked me about it. I offered up the fence thing, then proceeded to make my upper thighs the new sites for my bloodlust. I had to jab harder and deeper. It hurt more. The sharpness of the pain kept me from going too deep, but at the same time, I embraced the pain. It was no big deal as far as I was concerned. Funny how we hide things, and then declare them to be “no big deal”. To be honest, I still don’t understand it. When pain hits me, I crave release from it. But then, I seem to go back and do the thing that hurt me again. At least, it used to be like that.
I stopped when my daughter was born. I started again when I lost her. I guess it really does follow that when I am in an uncontrollable amount of pain, I would inflict pain onto myself that I could control. Maybe it gave me a sense of power when I was at my weakest. I finally stopped for good when I found the right meds. I think they helped me regain control of my emotions, which led to me feeling better. Once the emotional pain was manageable, the physical pain lost its appeal. It took therapy, meds and making good choices for me to achieve real recovery. Now I enjoy not bleeding
