I Control— An Essay

The first time I ever committed real self-harm, I was 13. Emo was cool, and kids were cutting, and that was acceptable. I was almost jealous. My insides were constantly twisting and writhing, and I wanted it out of me. I wanted to control all of the aching and stinging. Cutting seemed like a grossly under thought plan. I was analytical and overly conscious of my decisions. I was never anything short of thorough. I remember in an out of body moment of maturity and clarity telling myself, if you’re not old enough to decide if you want a tattoo, you definitely aren’t old enough to decide if you can live with the consequences of your scars. What I didn’t know was how eternal mental scars linger. What I didn’t know was the way that choices stick.

For awhile, I had been imparting minor afflictions on myself. I would snap rubber bands against my skin or claw at my thighs. Squeeze my nails into the palms of my hands. Sometimes I would pull at my hair until my scalp ached, never hard enough to rip any from my head, though. I frequently starved myself. Things that hurt in a way that relieved some internal pressure, but were never enough of the control I was craving.

I had changed schools that year after being expelled for fighting, and that coupled with an onslaught of teenage emotions had made me ill-equipped to navigate relationships. Especially at home. Everything kept building up inside of me. The fighting probably should have served as some type of warning to my need to release the internal struggle externally, but somehow I missed that sign.

I don’t remember what set me off, but I remember a quick cataract of thoughts. I remember fierce anger. I remember feeling like if I didn’t hurt something on the outside my insides would explode. I had already decided cutting was not for me. I opened my desk drawer, stuck my arm in, and slammed. My wrist bled. The bruising was immediate. Purple and red swelling like water color spills under my skin. There was a puckered, white crease at the point of impact that had small trickles of blood where the skin had ripped away. I didn’t feel it. What I felt was a rushing sensation in my head and my spine. It was followed by intense heat and then the feeling of cold water dripping from my fingers and toes. I used that method more than once afterwards. Sometimes if I was the only one home I would slam my ankles in doors. I don’t know how I never broke anything. That moment of release began a constant search to expel my anger on myself.

My eating disorders became more relentless. I had extreme body dysmorphia, so it wasn’t hard to drop my guard and unleash that particular form of punishment. My mother was a nurse, and I was always careful to check in with myself physically to limit the chances of hospital visits. Feeling faint or a bit dizzy was ok. Hunger pangs were ok. Racing or irregular heartbeats were not. Dehydration was to be avoided. I was good at hiding things.

I started going to shows around this time, as well. I learned quickly that a bit of unchecked passion in the mosh pit would get me hit hard. I was a wild thing. Not only was this a place I could let out my anger, but this was a place I could get hit back. I had complete control over this fighting. If I wanted calm, I stepped back. If I needed power, I became untamed.

When I started dating, I picked sexually and emotionally abusive partners. Not purposefully, but their quick-to-anger attitudes often drew me to them. I knew I would be able to incite fights without much persuasion.

I started self-harm before I knew what I was doing. You can’t take it back. At some point it becomes the only way you know how to manage anything. I still put myself through daily abuse without ever consciously deciding to. I seek out dangerous situations. Street racing, rough sex, being pushed around at shows, parties where I don’t know anyone, and neighborhoods I probably don’t belong in. I throw myself into hard to complete projects or emotionally draining relationships. I still tend to use eating disorders to feel dominance over my physical appearance. And I somehow never feel like the one in charge. The abuse rules my life, and I’m not sure if I know the way out of it.