stories

More Stories Anonymous, September 2003
"A letter from my head to my heart" Anonymous, January 2004

I suppose I really started to harm myself when I was about 12. I had always felt very negatively about myself - I didn't like the way I looked and never really felt as if I fitted in. I just wasn't good ENOUGH. I always did well at school but couldn't recognise my achievements.

I had always been very tall for my age and so felt 'big' compared to the other girls. I can recall watching a documentary around this time on Anorexia. I couldn't understand why the people in it found it so hard to eat; I felt I ate too much. I decided I should go on a diet but not let it get out of hand. I put myself on an extreme diet - a form of self-harm. I just wish I knew then where it would lead to.

The dieting became full blown anorexia, but deep down I loved my food too much so I started eating large quantities of food and then making myself sick. I got such a buzz from it, but soon the buzz wasn't big enough anymore so I started exercising compulsively and I got addicted to laxatives. At one point I was starving myself for days, vomiting when I did eat and taking up to 100 laxatives a day and doing up to 4 hours of continuous exercise at a time. I was pushing my body to the limit, punishing myself for not being good enough. The weight loss seemed irrelevant after a while; I just got a buzz out of being in pain.

By the time I got to university I was clinically depressed and was prescribed Prozac - the first of several anti-depressants I have been on since. I thought this magic little pill would cure me. It didn't, I wasn't ready to get better so I got worse. The other students thought I was weird - I never ate with them, I had extreme mood swings and I'd shut myself in my room for days at a time. It was around this time I started cutting. I'd smash plates and glasses to get sharp edges. I only needed a small trickle of blood to make myself feel calm and in control. I'd bruise my arms and legs on the corner of wardrobes, burn myself with cigarette lighters and joss sticks and pull my hair out.

I thought I was in control of my life. I wasn't - my illness was in control of ME. Things progressively got worse - I could barely get through an hour without doing something to hurt myself. It all reached a head and I couldn't cope anymore. I desperately wanted to stop but I didn't know how to, I didn't think I could.

One night in February 1998 I took an overdose of paracetamol. I wanted to die. I was found, spent a couple of days in hospital and managed to get discharged. A month later I did it again. I was devastated when I woke up in the morning - I couldn't even kill myself to escape. Two months later I tried one last time. I drank 3 litres of cider and took over 150 tablets. I went out for a walk and hid under a tree in the village where I was at uni. A passer-by found me and I was rushed, unconscious, to hospital. I had my stomach pumped out, and after two days of recovering I was visited on the ward by a psychiatrist. I had no choice. I could either be admitted into the psychiatric unit of my own accord, or Sectioned under the Mental Health Act and made to stay against my will. I agreed to go in with the idea of discharging myself as soon as I could. I ended up staying 10 weeks. It was the first of several spells in a mental health unit.

Because I was a harmer, I was on a 1:1. This meant I was never left alone, I was followed EVERYWHERE. I couldn't even go to the toilet or have a bath without someone watching my every move. I wasn't allowed razors, scissors, carrier bags or even tweezers - not even with supervision. It was awful. I just wanted to harm, I NEEDED to, I felt like I was going to burst if I didn't. Sometimes, just to spite the staff I'd bang my arms against the corners of cupboards and they'd have to physically stop me. I'd hide empty drinks cans under my clothes and smuggle them under my pillow. At night (when I was 'observed' every 10 minutes) I'd slowly tear the can in half in order get a sharp edge.

It was like an addiction. I couldn't cope with life unless I could do something to hurt myself. In hospital I wasn't allowed to make myself sick either so meal times was dreadful too. Eventually I stopped fighting. I burst into tears and cried inconsolably for several hours. Then I started talking, and more importantly, I started being honest. I very slowly gained the trust of the staff and they supervised me less. I had to agree to tell them when I felt I was going to harm and I knew that if I wasn't honest and they caught me then I'd be back on full supervision.

I couldn't just like myself instantly. I couldn't just start coping with life again. I started writing - I've got reams and reams of thoughts written down at home from this time. Instead of harming to deal with how I felt I'd write it all down or tell someone. Slowly, I was in control of my behaviour - it was no longer controlling me.

My family struggled to manage me. They were desperately worried, angry and confused and this made me feel guilty. I couldn't believe what I was putting them through. They found it easier to deal with if I was honest with them, but it took a while to gain their trust. Since that time I've had relapses. I haven't been in hospital since early 2000. I still have bad days, I always will, but I've learnt to manage my feelings without hurting myself. I still get very tempted sometimes, but I know where it could lead and I can't put myself or my family and friends through that again.

I'm left with permanent reminders. I have scarring and I have developed Irritable Bowel Syndrome as a result of the laxatives. I've needed extensive dental work to repair the damage the vomiting did to my teeth and my skin has suffered. In the future I may yet develop liver problems as a result of the overdoses, and the starving has left my bones more vulnerable to breaking. In 1999 I was rushed to A & E due to a chemical imbalance in my heart after I collapsed and my heart went into a funny rhythm - again because of the vomiting. I worked at the hospital for a while and needed antibiotics after I stole some needles, as I wanted to take blood out of my own body as a way of harming. The needles were clean when I stole them but I used them repeatedly and developed an infection.

I look back now and wonder, was it worth it? No. Did it make my life better as I thought it did at the time? No. Am I happier now? Yes. I don't have to make excuses for myself now. I am who I am, and people have to take me as they find me. My friends love me for WHO I am, not because of how I look or anything else. Self-harming pushed my friends away, getting better brought them back.