[!-nessica-!]

'Sometimes I felt nothing. Those were the worst times'


Clare Gerrard on life as a self-harmer

Friday November 28, 2003
The Guardian

I am a self-abuser, self-mutilator, self-harmer. Whatever label you give my behaviour, I use a razor blade as a coping strategy. The first time I cut myself, I was 15. My life had been shattered by the bullying I experienced at school. Most of the taunts were related to my acne - I was known as "pizza-face" during my four years at middle school. I had no friends, I was incredibly lonely, and became introspective, finding solace in the security of my own company.

When I was nine, and already plagued with self-doubt, I discovered I had epilepsy. The illness turned my life upside down. I was no longer able to trust my body. I had no control over its actions and felt it had betrayed me.

As I got older, I increasingly felt that I was worthless. Sexually, and within relationships, I would let people do anything to me. I felt it was rude to say no - I had no right to refuse them. These events always felt totally out of my control. Things simply "happened" to me.

Finally, I stopped eating in an attempt to take control. This way, I was all-powerful, looking down on the weak who succumbed to food. I could survive on air. Watching others eat repulsed me - I was God-like in comparison, existing on a higher plane, but sliding further into self-disgust each time I gave in and ate.

One sunny afternoon, shortly after my 15th birthday, I lay in bed feeling a desperate need to do something, anything, to stop the pain that felt like a physical ache in my abdomen.

To this day, I do not know what made me do it, but I found myself with a razor in my hand. I ran the blade lightly across my wrist. I felt a mild stinging sensation and, slowly, small bubbles of blood began to appear. I felt elation, terror, fascination and disgust. An enormous rush of adrenalin surged through me, followed by a deep sense of calm. The chaos in my head ceased. All was simple, nothing complicated. The feelings of anger, hatred and confusion had subsided. I felt that I had been tranquillised, numbed.

During the following years, I found myself time and time again in that place, blood pouring over my wrists, and staining my clothes and sheets. I took to carrying a razor at all times, because once I felt the urge to cut I had to do so, by any possible means.

There was no one really to intervene. My mother had been in a mess since my parents divorced when I was 13; she knew I was unhappy, but she was too caught up in her own difficulties. I was taken to the doctor a couple of times, but I did not think there was anything wrong with me, and I was very good at convincing other people of the same thing.

Cutting myself became an addiction - I felt better each time I did it. And, as with all addictions, I began to need a bigger high to find the same relief. Every cut, conversely, took a huge amount of courage and strength; each time I hoped I would injure myself more severely than before. Several times I ended up in hospital. Several times I hit veins, and once even an artery, as I worked toward annihilating my physical self. Yet still I felt I did not deserve medical or professional help.

By this time, cutting was such a part of my life that I simply could not comprehend that it was strange, or wrong, or symptomatic of deeper problems. By the time I was 16-17, I was cutting every day, many times, deeply, savagely, and simply pulling down my sleeves to hide the wounds. Still, nobody knew what I was doing.

Cutting is so complex it is hard to put into words what caused me to do it. Something small, but which caused me to turn grey with horror at the stupidity of what I had said or done, would be enough. Sometimes, the pain was so bad, I could not see, or think, or breathe. On these occasions, I would cut to relieve the agony. It was the only way I knew of coping.

I would cut with rage and bitterness, totally out of control. I was fuelled by self-hatred: hating the way I looked, or walked, or spoke, hating not being intelligent, or well-read, enough. I hated meeting someone who intimidated me.

Sometimes I could feel nothing. These were the most frightening times. I was numb; totally, completely. I was unaware of existing, unsure I was alive. People seemed not to notice me, or what I was going through. At these times, I cut for the plain reason that I needed confirmation that I was alive. I had to have proof that blood ran through my veins.

Occasionally, I would cut only to see if I still could do it. The courage each injury took was breathtaking. When I had not cut for a day or so, I would have to do so to prove to myself that I was still strong enough - that I could still cut deeper than the last time.

By now, I was attending a sixth-form college, trying to sit four A-levels. I occasionally went to class, but usually spent the day sitting on the floor of the refectory smoking, reading or writing. I retreated to the world inside my head, in which mental torment was glamorous, desirable, sexy, creatively essential even, for, as Larkin said, "happiness doesn't provoke a poem".

I managed to survive one semester at university before I stopped turning up to lectures. My "failure" simply gave me further and further ammunition with which to fuel my self- destruction. All I wanted, desired, hoped for, was the total obliteration of self. I had not the strength to kill myself, although if I had ever cut a little too deeply, I am not sure I would have called for help.

As the next few years progressed, I found myself in turmoil constantly. Then things seemed to improve. Even though I only felt a little better for a short time, remembering what it felt like to be able to get out of bed in the morning was an incredible feeling.

Yet my few months of reprieve only highlighted how bad things really were once I began to slip again. This spurred me on to hunt for help for the first time. I went to my doctor, who referred me to a local psychiatry unit.

At the unit, I was prescribed a cocktail of anti-depressants, anti-psychotics, sedatives and tranquillisers, which ultimately, along with talking therapy, got me out of the rut I was in. However, I now understand that these feelings will never leave me completely. They are far too deep, and are too ingrained in what I believe makes up "me".

Ultimately, self-harm is preservation. It is a survival strategy that the mind employs when it is drained of other resources, much like the cannibalism the physical body engages in during starvation. It is indicative of severe underlying unhappiness. More than anything, a person who self-harms, in any way, is in great distress and unbearable pain.

However socially unacceptable my way of coping may have been, try to understand the difficulties I have every day as a result of my scars. Try to appreciate what a brave thing it is for people like me to wear short sleeves. Instead of making the subject taboo, stigmatising the sufferer and asking ignorant questions; instead of staring open-mouthed at the scars, ask me an intelligent question, in order that I may have a chance to explain