Warning: The following contains mentions of self-harm that may be triggering to some audiences.
Self-harm is a difficult topic from any angle. It is baffling and uncomfortable for those who have never experienced it, and potentially triggering to those who have. So, dear reader, do you trust me to take care of you as we delve into this sensitive subject? Yes? Good. Then let’s cross these stormy seas together, shall we?
I have a minor history of self-harm. The first time was when I was 15, shortly after I entered treatment for anorexia. After years of invisible mental agony, I was desperate to have a visual, tactile expression of my pain. I wanted to feel something, anything, even—maybe especially—pain. For me, the physical pain and mental panic that accompanied self-harming behaviors was like a shot of pure adrenaline. Following that tumultuous high, there was always a lull in my mental struggles. For a moment, my brain’s fight or flight response was put on pause. My racing thoughts were replaced by simple silence, and I relished the comfort of quiet. This rare state of calm, the eye of the storm, was something I came to crave just as much as the high from the actual self-harming behavior. The only problem was that the calm never lasted.
In reality, the rush I felt from self-harm was really my body crying out in confusion over my attack, and there was a price to be paid. After the initial trauma of the self-harming behavior wore off, so did my peaceful interlude, and I found myself back in my invisible, but now even more severe, mental storm. More severe, because the self-harming behavior had left feelings of guilt, shame and self-hate in its wake. The price of that momentary peace was to feed my belief that I was inherently wrong or evil—a mistake. So, after each episode of self-harm the eye of the storm closed back in upon me, and I was once again left a prisoner in my own mind.
I couldn’t see it then but, thankfully, I realize now how maladaptive a coping mechanism my self-harming behavior was. It offered temporary relief and comfort but, in the end, it only exacerbated my mental distress. Now that I’ve had treatment, my go-to coping mechanisms have had a complete makeover. They’re positive and productive, and they leave me in a better place than where I started. Let me take you along for my favorite…
It’s still dark outside when my alarm goes off. I grab my phone and swipe it off, checking the time as I do. Ugh. After one final stretch of my whole body, I roll out of bed and shuffle to the bathroom. I get ready quickly, waking up as I do: brush teeth, put in contacts, wash face, put on clothes, tie back hair… muscle memory guides me through these sleepy mornings. Before I know it, I’m throwing on my sneakers, grabbing my keys, and slipping out the door into the early morning. Music is my shotgun rider, it keeps me company as I drive to the gym. Part of the early morning crew, I’m one of the first members to swipe my tag and be greeted by a cheerful beep. What comes next depends on the day. Some days it’s a HIIT (High Intensity Interval Training) workout, other days it’s a date with the treadmill, Pilates, or yoga. Some days it’s a happy combination. What is consistent on all days, though, is the result. For a brief moment in time, I touch that same high, the high I chased through self-harm and other maladaptive coping mechanisms before I learned there was another way. The more intense the workout, the more intense the high. I feel my heart race, I hear it pound. Sweat pours down my face, I taste salt. My inhales and exhales are forced to the extreme, like the mix of pleasure and pain when you burst from underwater and take a huge, glad breath. I find pleasure in pain as I break my body down. Only this time breaking down leads to building up. This time, self- inflicted “pain” is a form of self-love not self-hate. I push my body to the limit, I push right to the point before collapse, and when I hit that mark, I feel a high as powerful as those I got from self-harm, but with no price to be paid, no guilt, or shame, or doubt. I touch that high and smile, holding its hand for a brief moment before saying goodbye—a healthy goodbye—until tomorrow.
The sun waves “hello” to me on my ride home, and the rest of my morning is spent getting ready for the day ahead. I take a hot shower, letting the steam hug me. Wrapped up in a cozy robe I enjoy a quiet breakfast, my favorite part of the day. I give thanks to my body, my vessel, as I refuel and nourish it. I feel refreshed, I feel joy, I feel peace. I am not in the eye of the storm anymore. No, I have passed through the storm and I’m on the other side.
About the Author: Veronica is training to be an esthetician and will begin nursing school in the spring. She has lived experience of borderline personality disorder. She volunteers with the Lived Experience Committee in order to share a message of hope and to fight against the many stigmas that still surround mental illnesses. You can follow her platform and passion project on Instagram @beautifulpowerfuldeserving.
I am 60 years old with recent heart issues and I am inactive. I did 20 years in the Navy I was diagnosed with BPD over 20 years ago but continue to struggle I have a good therapist and I see a phyciatrist every 6 weeks. I was a cutter for 21 years. I stopped cutting 3 years ago. I live near San Diego. I trying to find a group or chat room where I can talk with others like me. I am sober 17 years and attend AA