Things had been tough for a while. I was feeling this darkness pushing down on me from every direction. Almost like being at the bottom of the ocean with so much pressure pushing down on me.
But I couldn't place it, I didn't know where it was coming from.
I was crying a lot, at least once a day. Sometimes it was from fear (although I'm not sure what I was scared of) and sometimes it was from the pressurised feeling. Maybe the fear was of that feeling? Who knows. Sometimes I would just feel so hopeless, so empty, so scared of everything. I would pull out my hair or punch my head. It was like a sense of frustration.
I had been clean from opiates for almost a year so couldn't dull any feelings that way and didn't want to risk getting addicted again. Self harm had been a complex topic as although I had self harmed in the past year, it was a maximum of 3 times and in ways (or places) that were unnoticeable as I didn't want to have to show up to work with bandages on my wrists. I couldn't face that pity that I get from someone new when they see fresh injuries - least of all from people in work. I want them to like me, not to think I'm some crazy bitch they should stay away from. It even felt like an unintentional burn on my hand had to be hidden since they would see my other scars and connect the dots.
Basically, when I was feeling anxious or depressed, I had no fall back. I didn't want to get back into opiates and compromise my studies. I also didn't want to cut and compromise the relationships I had built with people. But what was left?
It's easy now thinking of what I could have done instead. I could have went looking for the cat. I could have vented to my parents. I could have went for a walk.
A few weeks before, I had phoned the doctor to let them know how I was feeling. It wasn't easy, but I had been encouraged by my partner who could see my emotional decline in the past few months. I felt nervous even calling and asking for help - it's something I've only had to do once when I was about 16. Since then, I had been looked after by a combination of the local mental health team, counsellors, psychologists, and nurses so never needed to call and speak to a GP. Having to make that call took me back to when I was 16, scared, and feeling so very alone.
The doctor was nice and helpful. She wanted to know if I had any wounds that needed attention and I told her no (which was the truth). She then passed on a referral to the local mental health team. As I was deeply concerned and knew how long these referrals can take, I leaned on a counsellor I had been seeing up until recently. Sessions with her had been the last mental health service I had been attending before being left to stand on my own two feet for the first time in nearly 20 years with no professional support. She was kind enough to offer me an appointment which was very much needed.
But I could still feel this darkness, this pressure pushing down on me from all sides. I didn't know what to do, and it was made worse by the large amount of work I had undertaken. I'm no longer getting paid for helping with research, but I'm still working on the project I had undertaken for my placement and was also helping with tech support in the lab. I applied for conferences and other events despite still having my own BSc work to finish for my placement year. Perhaps I thought it would help to keep myself distracted. Maybe it did, for a while.
I got a letter from the mental health team a few weeks after calling the doctor. They had made the decision that I was the same as when they last saw me with no significant change. They were not going to offer me an appointment and I was told to wait for psychology.
I've been on the waiting list for that for over 2 years now.
I don't recall much about Monday. I remember in the morning I did some gardening. It was to be a very rainy day so I thought I should plant the sunflowers I've been growing and let the rain get to them when it arrived later in the day.
I can also remember the afternoon. I was trying to sort out something in work about a computer we bought which was the wrong type. Unfortunately we couldn't get it sorted, but it didn't bother me too much.
However, I felt the pressure building up. I don't remember anything in particular triggering me, but I became quite upset with no idea what to do. I was in my room, alone. I hadn't cut since January at least
I could hear something in my head telling me "I have to do this." Nothing else. I 'have' to do this. I 'must' do this.
I sat where I usually sit, got my first aid kit, got a towel, and my tools. It always starts slow, with nothing much happening, so I kept going over it. I made a little hole. Then I expanded it. And expanded it. And kept going. I reached a part of my wrist that I consider the 'danger zone', and instead kept going over what I had already done. There wasn't much blood at all, it was mainly the width. I knew myself that I hadn't done anything life threatening, but I also knew that I had done something I couldn't disguise or ignore. This wasn't just another case of letting it dry out, throwing a dressing on, and wearing long sleeves for a while. This couldn't be hidden from anyone.
'But why did you do it?' I hear you ask. Of course, there was the voice in my mind telling me it must be done, that there is no alternative. But why cut? This is what people fail to understand. A simple cut on the flesh and it's stingy, sore, bleeds a bit, but maybe not a lot. A wound which cuts through the layers, 5 cm wide, bleeding but not arterial? You feel nothing. You've cut through the nerve endings, so it's no longer painful. You see it and your eyes can't believe what you've done, but your body is too busy with the endorphin rush to care. For a few minutes you feel completely empty - in a good way - like all of the stress, the sadness, the pressure... all of it has melted away. It feels heavenly.
But eventually you snap out of it and see what you've done. Then you freak out.
I tried to figure out what to do to avoid my parents knowing but eventually I just had to admit defeat and walk in to the living room, tissues over wound. I was crying, not making eye contact, just repeating "I fucked up" and "I'm sorry". I still hear my mother screaming "Oh my god" when she looked underneath the tissues. Meanwhile, my dad was telling me "but you're doing so well at university and with all this research you're doing!"
He called the ambulance and I sat cuddling into my mother (who by now had grabbed a couple tea cloths) repeating "I'm so sorry." The last thing I've ever wanted to do was to bring them into this mess, and yet here we were. After waiting in one of the most awkward silences of my life (except for me bawling my eyes out), we were told no ambulances were available. My dad drove us up to the hospital with me still crying on and off and bleeding through the tea cloth. My mum was also crying.
It was difficult at the hospital which was especially packed for a Monday evening. My social anxiety was in full swing, I was on guard until I got too tired to care anymore. You don't want anyone to see you when you're at your weakest, walking into A&E in a sun dress with blood on it and clutching your arm which already has been scarred enough. After about an hour they took the tea towels off, cleaned it up, and taped a dressing around it as a temporary fix. I would be having that 'temporary fix' on until 1:30AM in the morning.
I spoke to the mental health crisis team there who wanted to know the background to what I had done. They wanted to establish if I was going to do it again. I wasn't. I felt like a huge weight had been lifted by what I had already done, I didn't need to do anything else. They also wanted to ascertain whether it was an attempt to end my life or not. Of course it wasn't. If I wanted to do that, I'd know exactly how to and it certainly wouldn't have been by doing what I did that afternoon.
After waiting for hours with no progress after that, we were informed around 1AM that the nurses had all went home at 10PM. A receptionist told me then that I wouldn't be seen until 6AM. I was still bleeding at this point, not much, but enough. I was so tired at this point and didn't want my mum to have to sit with me for any longer so told the guy I was going home. He informed me I needed to let the one doctor still working know, so I did.
I walked in and said "I was told I wouldn't be seen until 6AM, so I'm going home."
"You're the girl with the cut on her arm? No no, I heard about you" the man said. "No no no, you're not going to wait until 6AM. I have one more patient then I will see you."
So then there was more waiting. I sat down and, true to his word, the doctor came out and called me in. The dressing was removed and for a short 5 minutes or so, I was sitting with a very wide wound exposed to anyone who walked by. He came back, let me lie down, and tended to the wound while my mum was treated to a free clip from 24 Hours in A&E but not on the telly. Local anaesthetic to the location, 9 stitches, and I was free to go.
I took the rest of the week off from everything. My mind was blank. Not a single worry. It was a very strange but serene feeling. I was sitting in the sun reading books, going for walks with my dog, gaming when I've felt motivated to do so... I did a bit of admin work for the lab but that was the height of it. It feels like the whole situation changed my perspective on many things and I don't know why. It's like a regenerated mental shield.
I got my stitches out after a week and have been left with a scar that's about 7 cm long. I've never had stitches for cutting before so it was... an experience.
Once I got my stitches out, I was back to work. Like nothing ever happened.