This isn't a light-hearted entry, just so we're clear... and at some points it's a tad graphic I guess.
I'd been thinking it had been at least six months since I'd last cut myself... and it makes the urges I've been having the past few weeks or so even more stressful... like I'd really be letting myself down if I caved. But I think about it SO much. (Although the SPN convention was quite a lovely distraction) I'm more or less coming to terms with the concept that it is something of an addiction. A harmful thing I turn to when I get stressed or empty-feeling or need a release. I guess I'm more familiar with the concept of a chemical addiction than something that's more psychological.
To a lesser extent I still have a problem with Ambien. I just don't have access to it right now. I let my mom keep it after my jaunty trip into the ER 18 months ago...and my prescription ran out ages ago, so she gives me one if I need to go to sleep right away for something important I have to do the next day(lol so like once a month)... But it's something I think about as well when I'm stressed out. I have done a lot of dumb shit when I took ambien if I didn't go to sleep right away... from the annoying, to the embarrassing, to the regrettable, in one case I said something cruel to someone else that I'll probably never forgive myself for, and a couple of instances where I did some shit that I've literally told no one about because it's fucking crazy and there's no other way to put it. But I still miss how it made me feel. I'd take one, and if I didn't lie down to go to sleep within I don't know 15-20 minutes, I'd start getting sort of a nice buzz almost. Not quite a high, I'd just be in a better mood. Once it started to wear off, I'd realize I didn't want that mood to go away, that I wanted to keep that content/goofy sort of feeling. So I'd take another. And that's when things would go downhill. That's when my typing would get ridiculous, or I'd admit embarrassing things, or... well let's just say way too many of my online buddies know what my tits look like now. At some point, around but before that same 18 months ago, I realized that when I cut myself after that second(or third) pill, I was hardly even feel the pain, and unlike some people who do it FOR the pain, that wasn't/isn't why for me...so realizing it hurt less when I was on ambien created a bad combination where I'd take them ambien for the purpose of cutting myself.
After something a 'friend' told me about me being worthless (I mentioned this in another depressing entry), the cutting really started to get out of control. Between May 2010 and October 2010, I amassed dozens of cuts. I went from mostly using up my left inner arm (that's where I like how it "feels" the most) to moving on to the tops of my thighs, to my breasts. But all that was mostly in one day. I took one ambien...then two... then I think I ended up at six. Which is how many I took (all at once) the day Justin broke up with me(I didn't know if it would kill me. It was kind of passive... it was like "well if it doesn't, then I'll wake up... and if it doesn't, that's that... and then the next thing I knew I was in the living room with one of those pulse/heart monitors they put on your finger, some onlookers(I still don't know who the fuck they were or why they thought it was ok to come into my home during this, and my Mom... so anyway I call that 'the world's most passive suicide attempt'). Anyway so between the first pill and the sixth one on that day in October, I'd done the cuts on my thighs and breasts. Altogether I made about 50 cuts on my arms/thighs/breasts, many of them fairly shallow(worse than a bad cat scratch, but not bleeding too much) to some that were deeper/wider. Even with all that, I didn't lose a whole bunch of blood or anything, most of them only dripped a bit, some of them were actively and continuously bleeding, but nothing that would have caused any significant blood loss. I certainly didn't need a transfusion or anything crazy like that. But they were still bleeding and I needed bandages...and I wasn't thinking clearly obviously, and I went to my damn neighbor and asked if they had any. Standing of course made the blood from the deeper/still bleeding cuts run down my legs, and I was in shorts, so I can only imagine what it looked like to them. So my neighbors got bandages from the store for me, but they told me they thought they should take me to the ER, to get some of the worse ones stitched up. The closest actual hospital is a good hour+ away, so it was a long and awkward ride... I curled up in the van and listened to music/slept. At some point before I left I called my mom to tell her(I don't remember the conversation though, like I said I was on six ambien) and she met us there. I don't remember a whole lot about my time there. A few things I remember... I was sort of laughing at the novelty of the experience. I got my mom to take a few pictures with her cell phone. It made her uncomfortable, but she humored me.
The images aren't too scary. You can see a couple of cuts in a couple of them, but the real offensive thing I think is my hair and eyebrows. Oh and how baked I look.
I also remember them deciding I didn't need an overnight stay or an extended psychiatric hold.
I also remember picking at some of the already forming scabs while my mom was out of the 'room'(well I think she was out of the room) and my neighbor(one of them was off doing other things while we were in the ER) telling me I should leave them alone... then she went, TOLD A NURSE ON ME...and the nurse came in with two orderlies asking if she was going to have to make me stop. It was humiliating, and over a year later I'm still mad about it. I mean there's being a danger to myself, and then there's picking at scabs. The scab thing is part of my 'process'...
I also remember flirting with a male nurse. I can't even believe I did that. For one thing...well you saw the photos. I was there for being crazy and I looked the part.
And then I remember them deciding most of them didn't need stitches, except for I think one or two on my leg... they used weird sticky tape stitches that actually left little scars of their own.
That of course was when I let my mom keep the ambien with her. I felt so guilty, I needed to let her feel like she had some bit of control of the situation. But after a couple of times where I wanted one to go to sleep and she wouldn't let me, I got a refill without telling her(this was all back before a late paperwork fuckup on my part cost me my state-funded healthcare, so I didn't need to go to anyone for $... and also before I admitted to my doctor that I'd abused the drug in the hopes that she would give me something different/safer to try. She instead told me to use the things she'd prescribed for a different reason a while back. They do help me sleep, but I'm useless the day after. They don't work for a sleep aid when I have something to do the next day, and I was really frustrated that she wasn't listening to me about that and helping me find a new solution.) ... Anyway so I had my secret bottle, but I was fairly careful with it. Any fuck-ups on it and my mom would have known I had an extra bottle. So I used it for it's actual purpose, although there were still a few incidents where I didn't go to sleep right away and did stupid shit, but just in the annoying/embarrassing range. Not sure how long the bottle lasted, several months at least. I stretched it out well. Every time I thought about using one I thought "ok but this is one more you can't use later so BE SURE."
There was a day (I'm not sure where in this whole time period it took place...it could have been after the hospital, or before. All I know is that the weather was decent so it wasn't in the winter.) when it was the middle of the day, I took a couple, had the whole giddy buzz going, and wandered out of the house and into the woods (I live IN the woods, so it's not like I was several minutes away) and fell into a wide hole. When I looked in after I'd gotten up, there was a thick and pointed branch sticking up from an even thicker immovable branch on the ground. If I'd fallen a foot to the right, I seriously could have been killed...and although my mom was home, she had no idea I'd gone outside. There would have been a smell that reached the house eventually if I'd died, but for several days my mom wouldn't have known what the fuck had happened to me.
So yeah. I did all that on it but still miss it, so that counts as a problem.
Anyway... the point of this whole entry that obviously got away from me in terms of storytelling is that there's this scar/scratch/idk on my right arm... Widget(she's been gone two weeks and I miss her so much it hurts. A completely different cat around her age that Justin had left with me went missing in 2010 was part of the whole downward spiral actually) accidentally scratched me with her back claws while using me as a jumping board, and I'm still a slow as hell healer. I remember on my birthday last March going to hang out with a friend, and feeling the need to point out that the mark on my arm was indeed just a cat scratch. And I'm thinking that means that it was after I'd stopped cutting if I felt compelled to say that. But I also think I might have been wearing a faux sleeve over my left arm like I do when I'm hiding cuts when I'm out of the house...but I'm not sure(btw, if any of you actually know when the last time I cut was, since I'd probably have said something to a certain few of you if I'd done it and was feeling mad at myself, please let me know, just so I have the right timeline). It's all jumbled up. The point is, the idea that it might have been closer to a year since I've last cut has made me stress even more. Now it's an even bigger thing that I'd be ruining if I gave in. And that's making me feel like I just want to get it over with.
I've mentioned it to a couple of people... and they say "don't do it! you're doing so well"... and that actually makes me feel worse, because it's making me realize how much of a failure I'm going to be if I crack. The more people I tell, the more people I risk letting down. So even getting all this out means I'm setting myself up for more failure in a way. Even if I do it and they don't find out, I'll KNOW I let them down. Even if it's just some random stranger that gave me a pep talk online, or a close friend. And honestly, that 'if' feels a lot more like a 'when' at this point.
I don't know how to find a healthy medium between pressuring myself too much not to do it, and just giving up.
- Giving in to an adddiction -