It started with a slap to the face. Accompanied by one simple word: Bitch! Terrified, I turned to a friend, hoping for understanding, love, compassion. What I got was fear. My friend avoided eye contact, pulled away physically and told me “I can’t do this.” I felt deep shame.
Over the next few years, the violence got worse. The open hand closed into a fist, punching me in the arms, legs and finally face. The single cuss word become a tirade of belittling hatred, describing in detail just what an incredibly worthless piece of shit I was. I became an expert at covering bruises with make-up.
Then a belt was picked up and the whipping started, leaving bright red, sometimes bleeding bands across my back and legs. By now the hand not only punched, but grabbed me by the hair and smacked my head full-force into walls and doors. The bruises became too difficult to hide. So I hid myself instead, avoiding people I knew.
I reached out several times to friends. But the reactions were always similar: fear, panic, even anger. I had no idea how to talk about what was happening to me. Nor what to do to stop it. My loved ones didn’t know any better. They felt helpless and in desperation most pulled away. And I was left reeling in shock. How could friends hang up the phone and refuse to come to my aid when I was being beaten? Looking back, I don’t know how aware they were of what was actually happening. Shame stopped me from being explicit.
By the fall of 2014 I barely left my house. Ten full days passed without me talking to a single human being. Verbal and physical abuse were part of my daily life. I was terrified beyond belief and felt more alone than I had ever felt in my adult life. I was told to get help. I tried to get help, but only found waiting lists. Until finally, in utter desperation I did the only thing left that I could think of doing: I walked into a doctor’s office, pulled up my dress to show a body covered in bruises and told the receptionist that if I didn’t get help soon, I would kill myself. It wasn’t a threat. It was a pure and simple truth: I could not keep living with this constant fear and never ending barrage of physical and verbal abuse.
This time, finally, I was heard. And given help.
It’s been about three years since that first slap. Five months since I started getting help. A month since the last smack to the head. I often think about how different things could have gone if only I had been able to talk to someone and find understanding in those early days before things got so out of control. It would have saved me years of suffering and shame. And it could have saved those who loved me from their feelings of helplessness, hopelessness, fear, anger and guilt. Because that’s the thing about self-injury, the more it’s kept a secret, the worse it gets. For everyone.
Today, March 1st, is Self-Injury Awareness Day. Which is why, in spite of all the shame I still feel, I’m sharing my story. In the hope that it will raise awareness of why it’s so important to talk about self-injury. Awareness leads to understanding. And understanding can change the world for people like me. And for those who love us.
So please, take some time to read and talk about self-injury. The first slap across the face, the first cut, the first burning cigarette pressed into the skin, the first purposely stubbed toe into a wall, or even just the thought of doing any of these things, can be the beginning of a terrifying lonely violent spiral downwards. But it doesn’t have to be. If we can talk about it, it can be the beginning of a process of healing. All it takes is some understanding.
Please check out this website: www.lifesigns.org.uk
Over the next few years, the violence got worse. The open hand closed into a fist, punching me in the arms, legs and finally face. The single cuss word become a tirade of belittling hatred, describing in detail just what an incredibly worthless piece of shit I was. I became an expert at covering bruises with make-up.
Then a belt was picked up and the whipping started, leaving bright red, sometimes bleeding bands across my back and legs. By now the hand not only punched, but grabbed me by the hair and smacked my head full-force into walls and doors. The bruises became too difficult to hide. So I hid myself instead, avoiding people I knew.
I reached out several times to friends. But the reactions were always similar: fear, panic, even anger. I had no idea how to talk about what was happening to me. Nor what to do to stop it. My loved ones didn’t know any better. They felt helpless and in desperation most pulled away. And I was left reeling in shock. How could friends hang up the phone and refuse to come to my aid when I was being beaten? Looking back, I don’t know how aware they were of what was actually happening. Shame stopped me from being explicit.
By the fall of 2014 I barely left my house. Ten full days passed without me talking to a single human being. Verbal and physical abuse were part of my daily life. I was terrified beyond belief and felt more alone than I had ever felt in my adult life. I was told to get help. I tried to get help, but only found waiting lists. Until finally, in utter desperation I did the only thing left that I could think of doing: I walked into a doctor’s office, pulled up my dress to show a body covered in bruises and told the receptionist that if I didn’t get help soon, I would kill myself. It wasn’t a threat. It was a pure and simple truth: I could not keep living with this constant fear and never ending barrage of physical and verbal abuse.
This time, finally, I was heard. And given help.
It’s been about three years since that first slap. Five months since I started getting help. A month since the last smack to the head. I often think about how different things could have gone if only I had been able to talk to someone and find understanding in those early days before things got so out of control. It would have saved me years of suffering and shame. And it could have saved those who loved me from their feelings of helplessness, hopelessness, fear, anger and guilt. Because that’s the thing about self-injury, the more it’s kept a secret, the worse it gets. For everyone.
Today, March 1st, is Self-Injury Awareness Day. Which is why, in spite of all the shame I still feel, I’m sharing my story. In the hope that it will raise awareness of why it’s so important to talk about self-injury. Awareness leads to understanding. And understanding can change the world for people like me. And for those who love us.
So please, take some time to read and talk about self-injury. The first slap across the face, the first cut, the first burning cigarette pressed into the skin, the first purposely stubbed toe into a wall, or even just the thought of doing any of these things, can be the beginning of a terrifying lonely violent spiral downwards. But it doesn’t have to be. If we can talk about it, it can be the beginning of a process of healing. All it takes is some understanding.
Please check out this website: www.lifesigns.org.uk