“Never lose faith in yourself,
and never lose hope;
remember, even when this world throws its worst and then turns its back,
there is still always hope.”
No! It stopped! I have to read more of this. Possibly one of the best pieces I've ever read. Please continue to update frequently. But I can tell you that no matter how often you update, it'll be too slow for me. I cannot wait to read more of this. I really wish I could meet you. I truly admire your writing. Thank you.
Awh, thanks guys! I'm musing over how to start the next bit at the moment. I may only be able to update weekly as well as I only have my phone during the week.
Life continued to pass, though the time without madness was fleeting. Help had been offered and I accepted it tentatively, wondering how things could possibly change. I had been ignored and let down by a system that should have been helping and yet again I was failed. I turned up to appointments expecting CBT and was instead met by a woman completely disinterested in me. After a few sessions with no support I was made to have an assessment with a psychiatrist. I was honest with him and after 45 minutes he declared me mentally sound.
As I was mentally sound, I discharged myself from the therapy I now believed I didn't need. The frequency of my self harm had been waxing and waning and once again came full force that summer. I had finished my A levels, been accepted into my first choice university and was working a full time summer job to save up for it. I only once had my self harm interfere with my work; after a vicious attack to my leg I was unable to complete a 12hr shift. I was a waitress and could barely put weight on my leg without pain. I was sent home and when my manager asked me what had happened the lies slipped easily off my tongue. I had become a master of deceit and felt my defences were impenetrable.
Occasionally I entertained the idea of a life without it. My arm had begun to lose it's shape and I often found myself crying in the shower at what I had done. Those days led to a resolve to stop. I truly believed I had a handle on it and often caved in because it was what I felt I deserved. I have no real recollection of what was going on in my head back then but I seemed hell bent on destroying myself.
The days of work began to blur together though in no bad way. I had been doing well, but it was inevitable that the truth would come out eventually.
Bubeep. Bubeep. Bubeep. I stretched out a tired arm to switch my alarm off and winced, as once again I had left my flesh broken and raw. I was tired, I had to shower and I was facing another 12hr shift. I managed to wash and dress, forcing down a small breakfast before heading out. I had a close, which meant I had to make sure the restaurant was ready for the next day after it closed. I had long ago given up taking care of my wounds though I made sure to keep them covered at work for health and safety.
Most of my shift passed uneventfully and soon there were just the 3 of us; myself, the kitchen closer and my general manager, Darren. It was the middle of summer and the day had been hot, accented by the giant windows at the front of the restaurant. Thinking it would be safe I rolled up my sleeves, wiping sweat from my brow as I cleaned. I was just emptying the glass tray noisily when my manager said my name, taking me by surprise. Instinctively I shook my arms and cursed as only my left sleeve rolled down.
'Are you almost finished?'
'Yeah, I'm just about to clean the glass washer and the sink, then I'm done.'
'What happened to your arm?' He stared and pointed at the bandage, which, as I noticed too late, had slipped slightly.
'Oh. I burnt myself, it's fine.'
'Hm. Ok. Let me know when you're leaving.'
He left and I paused, waiting for my heart to slow down. I finished up quickly and headed home, thinking no more about it.
I've re-written the last bit, so I'm re-posting. And then I have a new lot to post in a separate post. That's a lot of the word post. Anyway! The last bit re-done.
**
It all became real after that day. My secret was out and I felt horrible for it. I used to stand on the sidelines, convinced of my invincibility. I would never be ‘that’ girl, the one with no control. Then I found myself there but it was ok, I’d never become ‘that’ girl, the one with nowhere to go. Before I realised it, I’d hit a wall.
I was finally offered help and I took it, hoping to finally rid myself of my demons. At the time I had no insight into what was going on, no real concept of the dark place I was in. I started to see a psychologist who was supposed to do a course of CBT with me. I forget her name, but I can’t forget her treatment of me. The first couple of sessions were ok; I didn’t feel particularly safe with her but I wanted to give it a go. She then wanted to have me assessed by a psychiatrist and I was opposed. She set it up despite my telling her not to. I had to endure 45mins of having questions fired at me to then be told I was mentally sound. As I was mentally sound, I discharged myself from the therapy I now believed I didn’t need.
Looking back, I wonder if I was failed by the system or myself. I was barely 18 and still self harming to a degree that needed medical intervention and I was essentially left to it.
The frequency of my self harm had been waxing and waning and once again came full force that summer. I had finished my A levels, been accepted into my first choice university and was working a full time summer job to save up for it. I only once had my self harm interfere with my work; after a vicious attack to my leg I was unable to complete a 12hr shift. I was a waitress and could barely put weight on my leg without pain. I was sent home and when my manager asked me what had happened the lies slipped easily off my tongue. I had become a master of deceit and felt my defences were impenetrable.
Occasionally I entertained the idea of a life without it. My arm had begun to lose its shape and I often found myself crying in the shower at what I had done. Those days led to a resolve to stop. I truly believed I had a handle on it and often caved in because it was what I felt I deserved. I have no real recollection of what was going on in my head back then but I seemed hell bent on destroying myself.
The days of work began to blur together though in no bad way. I had been doing well, but it was inevitable that the truth would come out eventually.
Bubeep. Bubeep. Bubeep. I stretched out a tired arm to switch my alarm off and winced, as once again I had left my flesh broken and raw. I was tired, I had to shower and I was facing another 12hr shift. I managed to wash and dress, forcing down a small breakfast before heading out. I had a close, which meant I had to make sure the restaurant was ready for the next day after it closed. I had long ago given up taking care of my wounds though I made sure to keep them covered at work for health and safety.
Most of my shift passed uneventfully and soon there were just the 3 of us; myself, the kitchen closer and my general manager, Darren. It was the middle of summer and the day had been hot, accented by the giant windows at the front of the restaurant. Thinking it would be safe I rolled up my sleeves, wiping sweat from my brow as I cleaned. I was just emptying the glass tray noisily when my manager said my name, taking me by surprise. Instinctively I shook my arms and cursed as only my left sleeve rolled down.
'Are you almost finished?'
'Yeah, I'm just about to clean the glass washer and the sink, then I'm done.'
'What happened to your arm?' He stared and pointed at the bandage, which, as I noticed too late, had slipped slightly.
'Oh. I burnt myself, it's fine.'
'Hm. Ok. Let me know when you're leaving.'
He left and I paused, waiting for my heart to slow down. I finished up quickly and headed home, thinking no more about it.
The next day dawned with no further damage. I actually took the time to check my arm before covering it up. I hadn’t gone to get it stitched up and couldn’t be bothered to deal with an infection if I got one. I had a short shift and was grateful – I’d finally get a night to myself. Work was busy, as usual, and the time passed quickly enough. The restaurant general manager, Michelle, was on shift and it was she I went to when I needed to cash off. I was just getting ready to leave the office when Michelle told me to hold on a second.
‘I just want to talk to you.’
‘Ok, is something wrong?’ I panicked; what had I messed up?
‘No, no. Darren told me that you’d burn your arm.’
‘Oh, yeah, I was cooking and caught it on the oven.’
‘Can I see?’
‘Uh…’ I’d just taken the bandage off because it was hot and itchy, but it was obviously not a burn. Crap.
‘I just need to check. Was it here you did it?’
‘Oh, no, I was at home.’
‘Because if it was here we have to write it in the incident book.’
‘No, it was at home.’
‘Ok. Can I have a look?’ I was used to people seeing my injuries, but only medical professionals. What was I supposed to do?
‘Max…’ I silently undid my sleeve and rolled it up.
‘And you burnt yourself on your oven?’ Her tone wasn’t accusatory and had softened. I stuck to my story and nodded.
‘Max, I’m not just here as your manager, I’m here to counsel as well. If you’re having problems or you want to talk you can come to me.’ I nodded numbly and got up to leave.
‘And do make sure to keep it covered – health and safety.’
‘I know, I do.’
‘See you tomorrow.’
I was furious at myself. Attention seeking whore. Worthless waste of space. Above all, I was exhausted. Exhausted with the whole affair everyone else called life. I went home and found a rare empty house. Before I’d had time to think I was sat on my bed clutching a stained towel to my arm. Yet again I had ripped myself open and everything seemed futile. I had become an expert at hiding it from my family and muttered relief to myself as I had avoided blood stains on my bedding. The towel, however, was a different story – it desperately needed washing and I couldn’t think of a way to do it inconspicuously. My parents arrived home just after 7 that evening and I lied to them, saying I was going to the cinema with friends. In reality I needed to go to the walk in centre and wanted to borrow my mum’s car.
My arm was painful, but a pain that I did not recognise. I knew I couldn’t deal with it at home so off I set. I parked at Asda as I usually did – they had free parking after 6pm. The walk to the hospital never took as long as I hoped. I could feel the butterflies start in my stomach even before I entered the building. I had the mental debate about whether or not I should go in; I was always consumed with guilt about taking time away from real patients. I sighed and walked in as I always did.
I approached the desk; thankfully the receptionist didn’t recognise me. I gave my name, date of birth and address and she found me on the system.
‘Why have you come in today?’
I glanced around and whispered that I’d hurt my arm. She didn’t hear me and I had to say it again, shame washing over me with each word.
‘Ok, Max, take a seat and a nurse will see you.’
The waiting room was mercifully near empty. I took a seat around the corner where no one else was sitting. The door to the treatment area opened and I heard my name. I got up and turned round to see that it was a nurse I’d seen just a few days ago.
‘Oh, Max. Come on through with me and you can sit in there until your turn. What happened?’
I couldn’t make eye contact and instead followed her meekly through the doors.
I didn’t, couldn’t understand why she was being nice to me. When I looked at her properly, I didn’t see anger, just concern on her face. Why did she not hate me? Here I was, taking up more time and resources and she was going out of her way to look after me. She put me in a treatment room and had a quick look at my arm.
‘Hmm. That’s a little bit worse than last time, isn’t it? I’ll have to go and get a senior nurse to take a look.’ She disappeared and I leant back into the bed, utterly worn out.
The senior nurse was a big lady with a kind face. Susan, the original nurse was young and new, whereas Sam had a more experienced approach. Again I exposed my arm, my pain and she prodded and pulled at me.
‘She’s gone through the subcutaneous layer; I’ll have to get a Doctor to sort it.’
I’d done what? She checked the sensation I had in my arm and fingers and carried on her questions. What did I use, was it clean, why did I do it, was I allergic to anything? I answered them dutifully, informing her that I seemed to be allergic to ibuprofen and aspirin. She looked at me shrewdly for a second.
‘Is that from overdosing?’
I froze and she took my silence as a yes. I used to take regular small overdoses of ibuprofen until one day my whole face swelled up. I assumed it was due to how many I’d taken and a few weeks later took the right amount of aspiring for a headache and the same had happened. I’d avoided it since. Sam was brusque, but no uncaring.
I sat and waited for about half an hour and a familiar Doctor came in followed by Sam. Once again I endured prodding and poking and heard something about the subcutaneous layer.
‘Erm, sorry, what does that mean?’
‘The subcutaneous layer is actually the several layers of fat underneath the skin. You’ve gone through that and into the muscle.’
****. What had I done now? It explained the weird pain and the odd appearance of the wound. The Doctor was kind and gentle. He apologised for the anaesthetic and I smiled; he was afraid of hurting me, even after what I’d done.
It is a strange feeling, experiencing kindness when you feel like the worst person in the world. I am still baffled as to why, out of maybe a hundred visits, I only had a couple of Doctors treat me coldly. The nurses were always friendly and concerned and the Doctors usually fine with having to spend time stitching me up.
Err. Forgive the awfully long update...I've spent the last week writing it! Ahh, to have time to kill.
* * * *
That night I had my first set of internal stitches. I shamefully felt vaguely accomplished – I’d managed to take another step into the shadow of self destruction. The feeling vanished the next morning when I showered and had excruciating pain every time I moved my arm. I had a day off and was meeting one of my friends in town for lunch and a wander round the shops. I had tip money that I had put aside to put into my bank but I decided to do something unusual – spend some of it on myself.
My parents and older brother had gone to work and my younger brother was asleep and would be for a few more hours. I felt my mind creep into old realms of opportunity. I tried to ignore it by watching TV and clock watching but I still had 3 hours until I had to meet my friend. I rolled up my sleeve and examined my arm. It wasn’t that bad, in fact my scars weren’t that bad or obvious at all.
Even now I can rarely look at myself objectively. I can’t see my arms for what they are, can’t believe other people’s opinions. It was never enough back then and it’s not enough now. It will never be enough.
Before I’d given myself time to think about it I was once again clutching a revolting towel to my arm. I wasn’t entirely sure how I’d gotten there. It was a repetitive, vile action. I’d stopped crying by that time. I rarely shed tears over what I was doing to myself any more; it seemed futile and self pitying. Sighing I waited for it to stop bleeding and began the methodical clean up – I always used a new razor but instead of throwing them away I had begun a sick collection of them in a small box with shells on.
I don’t remember what happened to that box – I eventually moved onto an H.Samuel necklace one. I do remember the smell; it was a musky death scent that even now, on rare occasions I catch it, is strangely comforting.
I got dressed and merely washed my arm before donning a black hoodie and leaving to meet my friend. We must have spent a couple of hours going around the shops before heading to McDonald’s to have something to eat. Everything was fine until we got up to go.
‘Max, you’ve leant in ketchup.’
‘What?’
‘Your arm, you’ve leant in ketchup.’
I looked at the table and saw there was a red smudge.
‘Oh damn.’
I wipe it off with a napkin and half heartedly pretended to do the same with my sleeve and shrugged. She was blissfully ignorant of the fact that neither of us had used ketchup and we parted; she went home thinking I was doing the same. Instead I trekked to what had started feeling like a second home.
On my way I stopped and bought a ten pack of B&H silver cigarettes. I had been smoking sporadically since I was 16 and never more than 1 or 2 a day on the weeks I did. I stopped on the outskirts of the hospital grounds and lit one, breathing in the rancid fumes. I was comforted by the nicotine high and spent 15 minutes talking to myself about whether or not to go in. At this stage I could felt the cold wet of my jumper being slowly plied with fresh, warm blood. I hadn’t thought it that bad, but the usually stopped bleeding for good after applied pressure. I couldn’t think of anything I had done to aggravate it.
After a few furtive looks around to check the streets were quiet, I rolled up my sleeve to have a look. I had lost my objective perception that told me if I needed treatment and I just stared at it indecisively. Eventually my feet led me through the doors and to the desk. I went through the same rigmarole and comforted myself with the naïve thought of not having to see the same staff as the day before.
For the first time I was the only patient in the waiting room. I had no idea how many were in the treatment rooms but I was alone there. I didn’t have long to wait until I was called through and my heart sank as I saw it was Susan. She didn’t say anything but she looked sad. I was suddenly, inexplicably filled with despair. I barely managed to answer the questions and desperately wished I hadn’t gone in. I stayed to be stitched, declined seeing a psychiatrist and was surprised to be told I couldn’t leave until I had.
On the times I had seen psychiatrists in there, early on in my trips there, I had experienced a range of professional conduct. There was one I had seen twice who had a good heart but really had no advice to give me. The most memorable was a man I had seen less than a month before I tried to take my own life. I expressed how hopeless I felt and how I didn’t know how to handle anything any more.
I can remember that day so clearly; the room I was in, which wound (now scar) it had been, his face and his smug approach to me.
I hated having to talk to anyone about what I had done and why; I never seemed to be able to give them an answer. I always tried though, when I did see them, in case that day was the day something changed. He blew into the room and barely took the time to introduce himself before throwing a barrage of questions at me. After the usual ones he asked if I was feeling suicidal.
‘Um, I have been thinking about it lately. I’m not coping very well and really don’t want to deal with the world any more.’
‘Hm. You know, I could show you pictures of failed suicide attempts. Things that have ended up with people in wheelchairs, vegetative or in ICU. I don’t think you’re going to do anything. Go to connexions and maybe see a counsellor if you want to.’
He got up and left. I was dumbfounded. How was that at all helpful? And he was wrong. Less than a month later I tried to kill myself and was convinced I would never wake up. I did, unfortunately, and decided that if I ever tried again I would do my research and succeed.
It’s not surprising that I was reluctant to see one any more. I dutifully stayed so I wouldn’t cause a fuss and saw someone for about 5 minutes. As far as I remember, nothing useful was said and I was allowed home. I had cycled in and as I was halfway home the anaesthetic began to wear off and the pain began. I should have been used to it by then, but every time it took me by surprise.
I was a teenager, barely an adult and I had no idea what I was doing. Outwardly I was smart, organised and responsible. I was working full time and had managed to save a considerable amount for that September, when I was to start university. Everyone thought I was so together, so prepared. In reality I was battling demons I couldn’t see without realising I was fighting at all.
The summer eventually came to an end and on my last day we went for drinks to wish my RGM goodbye. She was moving up the corporate ladder and as much as we whined about her, we were going to miss her. The evening ended with us all sitting outside our closed restaurant, smoking and fairly intoxicated. Michelle was leaving as her husband had arrived so we all took our cue to leave. She hugged us all and as she hugged me, she wished me luck and told me to ‘stop self harming yourself’. My instinctive reaction was to pull away, a bit irritated. She apologised and said it was only because she cared and then left. I hadn’t meant to upset her; I just wasn’t used to having it spoken about by other people, especially people who cared.
I was packing up my things for my move into student accommodation when I took the time to actually think about her words. I was about to embark on a new chapter of my life, did I really want to start it like that? It had been a couple of weeks since I had done anything and my arm was basically healed. I had spent years covering up with long sleeves when it got bad and sweatbands or bracelets in the beginning. The scars were, albeit shamefully, a part of me. I made a resolve there; no more self harm and no more hiding. It seemed feasible – surely I was going to be happy at university. I’d meet new people, make new friends, join societies and throw myself into study. It looked great on paper.
Nowadays I hold a lot of anger inside. I get angry about my constant, youthful naivety. I resent not making the most of my life, for not doing more sooner. I feel like I was failed by the system – I was so badly let down. I fell through the cracks and went unseen as everything I was doing drove me to crash headfirst into a brick wall.
Move in day for university was exciting, terrifying and down right confusing. My parents drove myself and a people carrier full of my stuff up there. The first hour was spent registering, getting my keys and negotiating my way around. A couple of hours later, my stuff was all in my room and we’d had lunch. We said our goodbyes and they left, leaving me to unpack and meet my new flat mates. Unfortunately the accommodation was not actually divided into flats – my halls had 5 floors with open access to every corridor of rooms. Roughly 300 people had access to the building and could get to any room.
It was unbelievable hot in there and as part of my new life I chose to wear short sleeves and keep no secrets. I had to share a kitchen with 7 other people, 4 guys and 3 girls. We had our awkward introductions as we unpacked our food and appliances into out cupboards. It was intimidating at first but when we’d all settled in a bit we decided to head into town for a few drinks. We all seemed to get on and enjoyed a good evening before heading back to our halls. A couple of them had other friends starting too, so they went their separate ways as we went to our rooms.
The next few days were uneventful – we explored the city, went for drinks and got used to our new surroundings. The only complaint I had was the noise – when people came in after nights out and went to their rooms up the corridor I often had to listen to drunken shouting and knocks on my door, which was too think to block any noise.
I thought my scars had gone, not unnoticed, but ignored. We had broken off into groups and there were about 6 of us that hung out – me, 3 from my kitchen and 2 of their friends. It was going well until one night I had an awkward and uncomfortable conversation with Emma, Dan, Charlie and Jon. Emma was the one who approached me.
‘Max, a couple of us just want to talk to you in the kitchen.’
Ok, had I not washed something up? It did seem a bit odd but I went in and sat down and Emma acted as spokesperson.
‘Max, we’re just a bit worried about you.’
‘Um, ok, why?’
‘Well, we’ve noticed the scars on your arms and we just wanted to talk to you about it. Did you cut yourself?’
‘Er, well, yeah. I used to but I’ve stopped now.’
‘I’ve never heard of it before.’
‘Me either.’
‘I haven’t either.’
The boys chipped in and honestly I was surprised. I suppose I had been so immersed in it that I couldn’t imagine anyone not knowing about it, especially as it was starting to become so prevalent at that time.
‘I didn’t know what to do to be honest. I thought we should get you to see a psychologist or something.’ Jon, at least, was honest. It felt like they were blowing it way out of proportion.
‘Honestly, I don’t do it anymore. It’s in the past.’ At that moment I truly believed what I said.
The conversation carried on for a bit, involving Emma admitting to doing it a couple of times herself. It had been she who had stopped the boys from jumping into action. They all seemed reassured and let me know that we were all friends and that they were there for me if I needed them. It was very uncomfortable, but I did appreciate their concern.
These days I don’t take anything at face value. I don’t trust easily and I rarely reach out for help in fear of being burnt.
I did talk to them on a couple of occasions, but never anything too serious and certainly not about the self harm. I wore short sleeves in halls, though this was mostly due to the heat, and enjoyed socialising with them. We became a pretty secure group and often stayed up for hours in the kitchen just talking, even after term started.
I found the classes extremely difficult, not the content, but the social aspect. A lot of the students had cliqued off already and it was very hard to talk to them. I managed to form a couple of relationships but they rarely extended out of lessons. I was also disappointed in what we were studying. I was doing a joint honours degree in writing and drama and whilst I found the writing side enjoyable, I hated the drama. I had expected the course to be about classic theatre and studying traditional playwrights; instead it focused on contemporary art and dove into discussions at to what could be classed as performance. Initially I thought I had misunderstood at the open day, but as I spoke to others, they too felt misled.
I had never been much of a drinker, but in my first semester I developed a habit of it. Despite my resolve not to self harm, I was still plagued by the low moods and urges. That on top of feeling unhappy and isolated in half of my classes resulted in my taking my drinking up a notch. Instead of just drinking with my friends I had started drinking on my own. Initially it wasn’t too bad, I never got completely drunk and it never interfered with my life. As time went on, I started to drink every evening; I kept a small bottle of vodka in my bedside table at all times.
As well as my classes I had joined the uni’s choir and orchestra. The aim was to do something I enjoyed as well as socialise and meet new people. I found that most members were music students and despite my efforts, none of them were interested in talking to me and I ended up feel ostracised. I stuck with it as I wanted to continue with my music but it did eventually become too much and I left them after Christmas.
I’ve never found it easy to make friends and tend to have a few close friends rather than a big group. These days I’m careful about who I befriend as I was constantly used and let down by people I trusted.
I went out of my way to try and make friends in that first semester and found out too late that I had made the wrong ones.
I had transferred to a Pizza Hut in the city so I could be sure to have enough money to get by on. I hated it. I worked 3 evenings a week and whilst the staff were mainly nice, it was a cramped space frequented by tourists and students. Whilst it might sound mercenary, that was frustrating as the tips were low and I relied on them to increase my income.
It was after a horrible Sunday shift, in which everything that could go wrong went wrong, that I got in and drank a bit too much. I didn’t stop at my usual point and pushed myself into an almost incapacitated state. I was drunk, I hated myself, I’d had a bad week and I completely lost control. I had taken my blades to uni with me as I wasn’t ready to throw them away and didn’t want my parents to find them. I had no new blades so O dug out my box and grabbed one.
I don’t have much recollection of the specifics but I cut my ‘clean’ arm. At one point Emma knocked on my door and I answered, though I have no idea what conversation ensued. It wasn’t until the next day that I realised I had blood on the pyjama bottoms I was wearing when I opened the door. I had carried on drinking and got to a point where I didn’t quite feel real. I was talking to a friend, Kate, on msn (I found out later I wasn’t making much sense) and managed to tell her that I thought I had cut but I didn’t know if it was real. She managed to convince me to go on webcam so she could see (she’s a nurse) and she tried to help but I was too drunk to listen. I had also posted online about it on a self harm forum, but again I was too drunk to pay attention.
I’m terribly ashamed when I look back on that night. Not only did I show a friend what I had done, but I also worried my friends. My behaviour was completely unacceptable, drunk or not.
I must have gone to bed at some point as I was woken up at 8 the next morning by my friend, Beth, calling. I was groggy and hung over but she made me promise to go to A&E; it wasn’t until she said that that I fully realised what I’d done. I assured her I would and started dealing with the repercussions. My desk was covered with blood, as was my towel. I had a half drunk glass of vodka and coke left by my laptop, which was still on. I also had a horrific pain in my arm. Looking at it made me feel sick. I somehow managed to shower, though I was in agony, but I had nothing to dress it with after.
The hospital was about 4 miles from my accommodation, so in a fit of insanity I decided to cycle there. Maybe I was a glutton for punishment, or maybe I was plain foolish, but I ignored the pain and got myself there. I had never been to A&E for self harm before. My home town had a walk in centre equipped to deal with minor injuries and I honestly felt that the wound wasn’t bad enough for A&E treatment – a promise, however, is a promise.
I surprisingly had a very short wait to be seen after registering. The hospital had split A&E into minors and majors and had different staff in both, so the waiting time only varied occasionally in the minors department. I was triaged, but instead of going out to wait again I was taken straight through. A nurse came to see me straight away. She had a look, checked the sensation in my hand thoroughly and told me the Dr would be over soon. I was exhausted so I leant back on the gurney and closed my eyes. I didn’t let myself fall asleep but it was nice to rest.
When the Dr came over the nurse was with him. I had to go through what had happened and stressed that I slipped up because I had been drinking. They treated me very well and the nurse managed to make light of the situation, though I can’t remember exactly what she said. I went through the process of stitches again, even though it had been over 8hrs since I had done it. The Dr had to put internal ones in again before it could close it, which wasn’t particularly surprising. They both made it clear how lucky I was and how I should keep trying to stop. As I blamed the alcohol they let me go home without seeing a psychiatrist. I chalked it up as a slip and decided that was it, I was done with it.
I was unbelievably lucky to not hit anything. When I look at the scar I can’t get the gruesome imagine out of my head. I definitely had a wake up call and though I occasionally got drunk for the purpose of cutting, I never managed to do the same level of damage. Initially, though, I packed in the drinking on my own and did want it to become a thing of the past.
Emma never mentioned that night, though from the way she looked at me after that made me suspect she knew. I was in a lot of pain from it and struggled to write notes, it was also very difficult to do all the exercises in drama; it was a constant reminder of my stupidity. It was as I was at work on the Friday that I had real problems. I could deal with carry trays, heavy plates and cleaning tables, but reaching up to put glasses on the shelf almost broke me. I could feel the cut fighting against the stitches and felt ill. Pain I could deal with, but the sensation of my flesh pulling made me want to vomit. Mercifully I managed to get through that shift, though I had another one the next day.
I got back to my room and my whole arm from finger tips to elbow was burning. I was alarmed to see that the slight swelling I associated with the anaesthetic had increased, making my arm almost twice it’s size and that it had spread and done the same to my hand. I tried to make a fist with my hand but couldn’t. I took off the dressing to have a look but apart from the stitches straining to keep it shut I saw no signs of infection or anything else.
I have just read all of this and it is really really good, please keep writing i can't wait to read more
"The body faught to survive, it evacuated toxins in any way it knew how. It made clots to stop the bleeding.Bones would find the quickest ways to heal themselves. It made scar tissue. In the face of violence towards it, it would become violent. It was amazing, yet excruciating. "
I feel like you've been inside my head and are writing about me
I really like the way it's written, with the tense and sentence structure and emphasis. It comes across as slightly confused, tired, and somwhat distanced from the emotion (while having deep emotion as well) - which is pretty much exactly how I feel about the same parts of my life.
Dunno if that makes any sense at all.
Even as the stone of the fruit must break
that its heart may stand in the sun,
so must you know pain.
There are only two ways in which one can live their life. One is as though nothing is a miracle, the other is as though everything is.
