From the age of twelve I have self harmed. I can remember the first time I did it and what I used but not exactly why. All I know was that I was angry and upset and I made a few light scratches at the top of my knee. I still have the very faint scars to this day. My mum has suffered with Bi Polar Disorder since she was eighteen and from the day I was born until I was fourteen, She ended up in hospital every two years.
I remember my parents had been arguing and I had obviously had enough of it. I went to the bathroom and grabbed a razor off the shelf and when to my room. I remember feeling a sense of calm when I'd finished, like everything was all better again. It took the pain of my mum being ill and my parents shouting away. I must have seen something on television that gave me the idea to do it but I have no idea what it was. I wasn't scared of doing it, but dying for a release from it all.
Anytime I found myself angry or depressed, I would always reach for that sharp object to take all the pain and discomfort away. I spent most of my teenage years being severely depressed and I quite often, at least once a day, take it out on myself. I would try my best to hide it under long sleeved shirts and tops and covering the scabs with make up. I didn't want anyone to know my little secret. I had a fear that nobody would understand. I'd be judged as a freak or an attention seeker and I couldn't cope with being even more of an outsider that I already was.
When I was involved in my first serious relationship with a woman in America, I continued it. I'd moved to Florida to be with her and I couldn't cope with the thought that I would have to go back to Scotland. I knew that our relationship was doomed from the start due to the problems we faced with visas and citizenship but I let my heart rule my head and put it on the back burner. Towards the end of my stays I'd quite often stay up late getting drunk and cutting myself because I wanted to numb the pain of facing up to losing her. The next day I would lie to her about how it happened, saying I brushed against the coffee table. I didn't want her to see I was breaking down and becoming a shadow of my former self. I loved her and wanted to do everything I could to protect her from it.
I would always regret what I had done. I'd quite often cry at the fact that my arm looked like a butchered piece of meat but I couldn't stop doing it. It wasn't a cry for help. Far from it. I had lost the ability to control my emotions and express my anger in a more productive way.
One previous girlfriend in particular took real offence to my scars. She looked at me like I was a nut job and I felt like one too. She said If I ever did it again, She wouldn't want to know me. I didn't understand how someone couldn't love me for who I was. It made my self confidence plummet and in the end I don't think she could handle it and our relationship dissolved. It took me a while to get over the fact that someone so close to me had judged me on the most sacred and intimate part of my life. I never thought I'd find someone who would see my scars as part of my life.
When I met my partner Davina in 2009, I was absolutely petrified of bringing my truth to light. After all the heartache I'd went through, I had to lay myself on the line and hope to god she accepted me for who I was. She did, thank god, and we've spent three glorious years together so far.
These days I'm not ashamed of my scars. I accept that people have questions and I will always answer honestly. They have became part of me like my tattoos are part of me. They're the story of my life and I haven't harmed myself in over three years. It's my biggest accomplishment.
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