This is the knife I purchased back in the summer when I was fishing. I had no intention of using it to hurt myself. In fact, my therapist asked where it belonged. I told him in my tackle box. I thought it would be easy to put it there but it wasn't so easy.
During the month of August, I had 2-3 acute movement disorders. Two of them landed me in the emergency room where doctors ran tests but found nothing was wrong. They labeled it as anxiety and post traumatic stress disorder. I was not the same afterwards. I felt differently in my head and I knew something was off in my brain function but to try and explain it to others was also a side effect.
I reached a point of despair on October 7th where a message from a prior therapist tipped over what I was trying to hold up. It wasn't her fault (completely). I was in a sensitive place, she knew that, and neither one of us had that fact on our brains. When I heard her voicemail, I grabbed that knife and as some of you may know, slashed my left arm 50-75 times in sheer anger. I was careful near my wrist so I wouldn't cause real suicide but it was in my mind to kill myself. That's when I was admitted into the hospital for 20 days.
As I write this message, the trauma of horrific abuse, terror and sleeping in my closet with dirty clothes and my blanket are now flashing through my psyche as I sleep. I resume the position of being curled into a ball, shaking, trembling, CPAP mask is whipped off because I can't breathe, I heard myself cry out the other night which scared me even more. I see shadows in my mind of my dad looking for me in my bedroom. I can see him because there are slits in our closet doors. The shadow is looking and looking but cannot find me. I am hidden, I am buried, I am not going to be found because I am silent. I do not cry, I am by myself, I do not have any help.
When the shadow leaves, I stay in the closet or I crawl to my bed. If I crawl to my bed, I curl into a ball with the comforter wrapped tightly around me. A wedge of it rests on my face, my cheek, and I hold it like I'm a little girl. I protected myself the only way I knew how.
I hid my body. I danced the dance of fright by disassociating and putting my mind in another world, in another state of being, in another person inside of me who could protect me. Erik.
He's my hero. Some of these pictures are graphic in nature due to the topic of cutting.
