Roughly 15-20 percent of people will commit self-harm during their lifetime. 15 to 20 percent worldwide. That’s nearly double the amount of left-handed people. With March being the month of self-harm awareness, we wanted to spread awareness ourselves through a story from one of our own writers. For privacy reasons, the story will remain anonymous.

“Sometimes we have to hit rock bottom to stop drowning.” 

I said those words to a friend around this time last year. I told her this to comfort her. As I typed those words, I thought about my own time when I hit rock bottom. My middle school experience was rough, to say the least. I struggled with my self-identity, my confidence, my relationships, and overall my mental well-being. I remember that time in my life as a time when life didn’t feel like a privilege, but life felt like a chore. like life was a punishment. My mind would spiral for what felt like a million miles per hour. I would obsess over my changing body, my failing friendships, and my grades. I would dissect these things to the point where my mind was in constant panic 24/7. 

I was filled with so much depression and darkness that I neglected myself most of the time. “Simple” tasks like brushing my teeth, showering, spending time with my loved ones, and even getting out of bed felt like torture to my brain. I was so incredibly disgusted with myself that I would purposefully hide myself from my family, rarely coming from my room. I would start arguments with my loved ones because deep down I didn’t feel that I deserved to be loved by them. I wanted them to hate me the way that I hated myself. I would attend school with a fake persona. I would laugh, joke, and smile with my peers. The double life I was living was making my soul rot from the inside out. 

I committed self-harm for the first time in my 7th grade year. I’d made a grade that I didn’t like and punished myself the entire day because of it. I refused myself lunch, started a bickering match with my mom, sat in my room, and whispered terrible things to myself. I can’t describe the feeling or thought that came over me to sneak into the kitchen and grab a butter knife. I made a mark on my skin. No blood, but enough pain to distract me from the dark cage my mind had created towards itself. I would continue to use that butter knife and press just hard enough to create a bright red line of pain that would hurt for the next two days and heal on the third. As the year progressed, that butter knife no longer served its purpose. I advanced to sharper objects and became observant of where I placed my wounds, making them harder to see. I would look up ways to help the wounds heal quicker and more seamlessly. 

I had a routine. I had comfort. I had a successful double life. By this time, I had repaired my relationships with others, using my self-harm as a relief instead of starting conflict. My mom called me into her room and asked me to lift my sleeves. My world shattered. My stomach dropped. A friend of mine had seen a scar on my wrist. I still remember the day I lied and said that I had a cat. I never thought she would tell anyone, but she did. And there I was with  tears in my eyes, looking at the woman who gave me life, ready to confess that I had been toying with that life for months. The wounds that my friend saw that day were fresh, and they were gone by the time my mom looked at my arm. But I knew if she had seen my legs it would have been different. She had no proof due to the “cat scratches” no longer being present, but the look on my face was enough for a mother to know. 

I spent that next year rewiring my mind. I researched ways to help myself. I tried stress balls, I tried the rubber band method where I would pop my wrist if I had any urges. I did this all alone. I had convinced my mother that whatever look I had on my face was a bad sign, but that sign was over. The worst had passed. Little did she know that the worst was yet to come for me. I relapsed during quarantine. My mental health was at its all-time low, as I felt so alone. I failed myself. I remember lying on my bedroom floor in tears. I asked God why He wouldn’t just let me die. Let me go. Death seemed so much easier than being controlled by the darkness that had been torturing me for years on end. That night, I experienced nothing less than an unworldly sense of peace. Today, I recognize that as the Holy Spirit, but back then I saw it as hope. Something that seemed so far for so long. I was not miraculously healed after. I would sit in my room craving the want for self-harm. I would romanticize the pain to distract me from my mind. 

I was angry with that friend for months for coming out. I look back now with so much gratitude. She saved me from myself. I thank God whenever I can for that. I am over 4 years clean. It has never been easy, and it has never been pretty. I know what it feels like to feel so alone and so worthless that pain can be a comfort for you. I want anyone who has or is struggling with self-harm to know that you are loved, and you are seen. It can get better. You are not alone and you never will be. Please don’t drown in silence. I love you.

Self Harm TEXT Helpline:

Text “SH” or “CONNECT” to 741741

Suicide and Crisis Hotline:

Call 988

Depression Hotlines:

Call 866-903-3787

Call 866-629-4564