I cut for the first time in early January of this year. It happened almost as an accident, and I immediately told on myself (to my husband), vowing never to do it again. Three months later, I’ve done it countless times despite promises to myself and D. that I wouldn’t.
The last time I hurt myself was Tuesday night, two days ago. I want that to be the last time forever and when I was trying to think of alternatives, I looked at the tattoo on my wrist (done shortly after the New Year as a promise that when I die, it’s not going to be by my own hand, and an acknowledgment of my struggle with suicidal thoughts and depression). The answer was so simple…I’d been thinking about eventually getting a large thigh piece in a few years as an apology to myself and my body for the hell I’ve put it through, not just through cutting but through other self-medicating, self-destructive habits.
I can’t, for the life of me, remember what triggered me earlier, but I do know that instead of cutting, I decided to draw a big, colorful design on my thigh, which is where I always self-injure. It actually worked–the urge went away and now I have something cheerful to look at when I get low. When it washes away, I’ll create a new one. I swear I’ll keep doing it until I conquer the urge to hurt myself when I feel sad, lonely, frightened, ashamed, or angry fades away for the last time.