I was a teenager. My parents were getting a divorce. I learnt that my father was not who I thought he was. My world was crashing around me. I could not stand the thought of his blood running in my veins. So I picked up a knife and I cut. The relief was instantaneous. The physical pain distracted me from the emotional turmoil. However, it was short lived. So I cut again…and again…and again. The day my mom cried over my bleeding wrists was the turning point. I made myself stop.
Fast forward to 2014. My world was crashing around me again and this time my support system was half way across the world. I was unable to cope and found myself caught in the dark web of self harm once again. None of my friends realized what was going on. The scars which were hiding in plain sight went unnoticed. Or may be they didn’t want to acknowledge it. So it continued until one day in February 2015, when for the first time I felt that the temporary relief might not be enough. I was scared that I might go too far.
I forced myself to put down the blade and pick up the phone instead. I called the university counselling center but hung up before they could answer. It took me a few more tries until I found the courage to speak to them. For the first time in my life, I accepted that things were out of my control and I needed help. I broke down and sobbed over the phone to a complete stranger and she just listened. When I was done I felt drained. I had taken the first step. I made an appointment to see a therapist in a couple of days and start my journey to recovery.