A study conducted at the University of Wisconsin found that 17% of people have engaged in some act of self-harm in their lifetime. I first became a member of that cohort nearly 25 years ago as a young adult. I would characterize myself as a shy individual during my young adulthood and I still show signs of it. I’m fairly reserved, but it is mostly out of habit or comfort now. At a certain age, shyness starts to feel a little silly and I have certainly reached that point. At the time I was cutting, my shyness was a very real thing for me.
I think the need to cut for me stemmed from several sources. All the times I recall cutting I had been drinking. I often wonder if I had been sober with the same feelings, would I have still cut myself? It’s hard to say, that was a long time ago. The feelings I had that led to cutting I remember were intense and real. They all steamed from not being able to express myself and connect with others on a personal level. To some extent that is still true, that is why I’m writing this now.
The typical scenario would be as follows. I spent most of my weekend nights in college with friends at a stretch of bars in our fair college city called “the strip”. Being as shy as I was meant that my main activities were drinking, smoking, standing in the corner, people watching, and playing foosball every now and again. My friends were more outgoing, so there was always a mixing with strangers…and girls, women. This was the real crux of my problem. I wanted to connect deeply with the opposite sex, but I was so terrified of engaging. Many times women would approach me wanting to talk or connect or engage. But I cloaked my fear and shyness with coyish indifference.
Every one of these times I felt shame, from cowardice, from putting up a facade, from not being a normal human that could connect with other humans or carry on a normal conversation. One occasion I remember a woman making very positive eye contact with me. She was sitting patiently and attentively on a barstool, smiling at me. I could have and should have walked over and introduced myself. Instead, I walked outside and smoked a cigarette. Then my friends came out and we left.
This was the model of the trigger for me. The root of this was never about not getting sex. It was always in the context of denying myself a deeper human connection. And the feeling of shame and powerlessness that comes with that. So I would go back to the apartment or house I was living in at the time, find some more beer or whiskey, and shut myself in my room. I would drink more and dwell on the fact that I was not able to simply talk or speak to a woman. A person that probably has the same vulnerabilities and insecurities as me. This didn’t occur to me at the time. She was just an object I ran from.
So, shut in my room, I would drink more and the shame would not go away. I don’t remember the first time I cut myself, but I do remember the feeling of satisfaction, or relief, of pacification of the shame, when I made a cut. It didn’t come from a place where I felt like I deserved the pain. I don’t think I was punishing myself. I think I wanted to show myself that I could still feel. That despite shutting down my emotions and denying myself the opportunity to connect with a woman, that I was still here and I could still feel.
Each cut I made seemed to temper my shame and feeling of powerlessness. I would cut my shoulders and upper thighs, each time going a little deeper. I focused on those places that could easily be covered because I didn’t want attention. When I had my fill and felt satisfied, I would retrieve the hydrogen peroxide and gauze and dress the wounds. I was probably fairly drunk at that point, but not so much that I was worried about getting an infection.
I wonder now how many of my loved ones know I had intentionally cut myself. One day at my aunt’s pool, my sister asked me about the scars on my shoulder; I think I made some lame excuse about getting scratches while hiking through briars. I’m sure many people have connected the dots. I have explicitly told only two people in my life: my brother and my wife. The years since, I have applied anti-scarring cream and a vanishing cream. Though though the scars have faded some over time, they still remain. And in a way I’m glad I can still see them. They serve as a reminder.
I’m a 43 year old man now and it’s been just over 20 years since I have intentionally cut myself with a knife. I feel little of the shame I used to then, though I still struggle with connecting with others. I hardly ever think about the fact that I used to cut myself anymore. The last time I cut myself I cut I large gash into my left shoulder causing blood to stream down my arm. It had been a while since I had cut, so I sort of relapsed. Cutting wasn’t a regular thing at the time and the shock of how much blood I had released brought my cutting to an end for good. Though the cuts on my arms and legs had healed shortly after, it would be many years before the rest of me healed.
If you are stuck in a cycle of self-harm and don’t know where to turn, there a several places to get help.
Self-Harm Crisis Text Line – Text “CONNECT” to 741741 from anywhere in the USA, anytime, about your self-harm crisis. A trained crisis counselor will respond letting you know they are there to listen.
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline – Even if you are not contemplating suicide, you can call 1-800-273-TALK to talk with a counselor if you’re about to self-harm or are in an emergency situation.
Contact me – I’m not a mental health professional by any stretch, but I have been in a similar situation. If you just want to talk and are not in crisis, I am always ready to listen and help in any way I know how.