My Life (self-harm trigger warning)

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My Life (self-harm trigger warning)

John Silver

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Prologue

Why do I write? Maybe I am tired of pretending, tired of living a double life, where on the surface, everything seems fine, but on the inside, things are rotten. Maybe there's still somewhere a little boy who would like to cry for help, even though the cries are decades late. Maybe I would like to give something to other victims, something that I would have needed, way back then. Or maybe I just want to write some twisted magnum opus of my life, even if just one person reads it. Even if that person is a moderator that rejects it.

I don't know. Honestly, reading the stories on this site makes me feel awful, bad, digs up so many buried memories, so much so that life is not fun now, and all the self-destructiveness that I have had in my life wants to raise its head once again. Still, life has taught me that silence is bad, and communication is good. Here goes, even if it hurts like hell.

Note and disclaimer: I am not comfortable in the least discussing anything that has happened to me in detail. You'll just have to accept that. On the other hand, I have a strong urge to discuss everything that has resulted from that, and by that I mean mental health issues such as depression, PTSD, suicidal intentions and my suicide attempt. If this post gets banned by that, so be it - however I feel these are integral to the story so I do not wish to leave them out either. I wish to make it very clear that these things are in the past now, and there is no danger now. Also, as said elsewhere on this site, should you need help, please, please, please contact a support line or health care provider or something. Thank you!

Introduction

My childhood was happy. As long as it lasted. We were poor, actually horribly poor, but we had ourselves. It all ended overnight when my parents announced their imminent divorce. I remember the nightmares I had after that. I was afraid of the future. Not nearly enough, not in the slightest.

What followed was a history of emotional and financial abuse. We children were left with our father, and were treated as parasites and free labour. Looking back now, it is clear that I had been suffering from clinical depression from an age of 13, maybe even earlier. What I do remember was wanting to die at an age of 13, childlishly fantasizing about cutting my wrists with a knife. I also did self-harm, although not really understanding that at the time. I was smart enough to do it so that it didn't leave any physical signs. For example took some overdoses aspirin and pain medicines, in a fantasy that I would have an ulcer and die from that - a foolish fantasy, but that was me back then.

Mix that with a teacher, who was keen enough to spot mistreated children and wicked enough to take advantage of it, and we have the stage set for the upcoming events to unroll.

The Incident

I do not wish to give any details about the Incident. Nor do I wish to give an exact age, nor place where this happened. I had just had an intense but short relationship with my first real girlfriend, and that relationship had resulted in a horribly broken heart. Having someone, with whom I could talk about something, was a huge thing for me, back then. And when it ended, it hit hard. Really hard. Like a ton of bricks hard.

Easy pickings, for someone who could smell potential victims a mile away. You want to pick those that are down, and can't call for help. Right?

Why did I let it happen? Why didn't I move? Why didn't I say "no"? I didn't want *this*, I am not homosexual. Why, why, why?? Why did I froze, why didn't I run away, why didn't I fight, do anything, anything at all?

The pain was unbearable, and by pain I mean unimaginable anxiety and depression. I am fortunate not remembering everything, but the Incident, the physical touch, the smells, the panic, how I froze in place, unable to do anything, that I do remember. And that memory of the Incident, that I have since then gone over and over and over and over in my mind, tens if not hundreds of thousands of times. I eventually got physically away from the Incident, and that is where my memory stops at that point, and to that I am so very grateful.

The consequences

From that point forwards, sadly even today, I regarded those locations that had been touched, dirty. I wanted to cut them away - not really, physically, but in my mind, like removing them would make me more clean. To say I was down is an understatement. The anxiety was unberable, and I mean that literally. It was so severe, that I was not able to function if I didn't manage it somehow. The immediate choice was self-harm. Inflicting physical pain would get me at least a couple of seconds worth of help. But that was not nearly enough.

I hated myself utterly and completely. I hated my gender, for its tendency of screwing everything it could. And by the same logic, I utterly hated myself, too. I wanted to crush myself like an ugly malformed worm. I had no desire to do myself anything good, what I saw in the mirror was so dirty, so disgusting, that what I wanted was only to distroy, to exterminate, to crush and delete. I was not a zero, I was a negative, a really strong negative, the deletion of which would make the world a much better place.

At that time, Internet was in its infancy. Usenet newsgroups were mostly unmoderated, wild and very popular at the time. I quicly found my home at a.s.d. (alt.support.depression) and sadly a.s.h. (alt.suicide.holiday). There also was a group called a.s.a.r. (alt.sexual.abuse.recovery) but that was not for me - I was not abused, see, what had happened was my own very fault. It was not an abuse, not a rape, all the blame was mine. There still was a voice in me that wanted help, but this voice was weak, only a whisper now. The group a.s.d. was for that, for hope. And they were supprotive, too, at least mostly. I remember a Canadian girl Jess(ica) who in particular is the reason I am even alive today (so Jess, if you read this, thank you). The sane voices in there begged me to get some help, and I tried that. I thought: okay, I am a good boy, I will at least try to.

And tried I did. But I failed. Tried to call some mental heath services, only to be hanged up or not getting any help. Not one or two attempts, but many, and all I got was a series of failures.

The conclusion being: I tried, now I do it in my way. The Usenet group a.s.h. was my guide so forth. For those who don't know, that place used to be the place for people wanting to commit suicide. Open discussion about methods, what kills you and what not etc. A total unmoderated jungle in the nineties. My goal was to end my life in a way what would cause minimal damage to others. If you think about it, not an easy task! You'll end up hurting someone anyway, the question is how you can do it so that you minimize that. The "best" answer I got was something like: "Make it look like an accident. For example, pass out in freezing temperature and freeze to death. If you haven't got a reputation to drink, you'll want to start having one!"

So that's what I did. That was my Plan to end my life. Of course, as you should know, alcohol just screws everything more and more, and that's what happened to me also. But since the decision was made, at least some perverted form of mental calmness resulted. When you have given yourself six months of life time, you know that the pain will end soon. That is soothing, at least a little. And I drank. I had always hated alcohol, that didn't stop me. I drank it like I would have drank poison. Not to feel better, but to ruin me.

What did not go away, was me hating myself. My Plan included making me a disgusting creature in the eyes of others - remember: to cause others as little anxiety as possible when I die. I alienated myself from most of my friends. And - let it be clear: I am not homosexual - I let myself be used by said teacher. I don't remember anymore how this started - I am so, so fortunate and grateful of not remembering - but that's the way things came to be.

I also should mention that I had a very bad case of what I now understand is PTSD. In my mind, the Incident played over and over, with its smells, touches, feelings, all of it. In the end, it took me full twenty years to finally learn how to stop that, to ground that, as they say. That was probably the most debilitating consequence of the Incident. How things would have been different, had I been able to get some help, way back then, when I needed it the most! Alas, my life continued, me being a wreck, limping my way towards suicide that I so dearly anticipated.

The first six months passed, and, well, committing suicide is not as easy as it is sounds. I gave myself another six months, then another, then one year, and finally I stopped giving me a precise time, although I never abandoned the Plan.

What I regret most from these years is that I had gotten myself another girlfriend. She was the most sweet, most fragile creature that ever existed, but all I could do to her was to spoil her life in my pain. I am eternally sorry for her, and still feel pain when I think about that now. Should there be a way to repay and mend things, I would.

My darkest hour

Life went on, day by day, and I was starting to wonder how this all is going to end. The end came as a trainwreck-magnitude shock, that was as unexpected as painful. It all started when my abuser was finally caught and arrested. And the police interrogated me as well. I was shocked of the number of victims that were in this case. There were many. I cannot even vaguely describe what the officier showed me, what they had found from the guy's hard drive. I wish I hadn't seen that, the images still haunt me.

I knew that I was totally uncapable to say or testify anything at court. I would do anything, and I mean anything, to not do it. There was no way out. If I was alive, by law, I had to testify. There was (and actually is, even now) no way I would ever, ever, tell anyone about the details that had happened. There was no choice anymore. This was the time for the Plan that I had so long kept going on. I had no time to do any preparations, so my method would be what I had in hand.

I decided to take a full jar of blood pressure medication (decided not to tell here what it was and how much) and drive my car into a cliff. I closed my cell phone, put on the best suit that I had, bid farewell to my home and drove.

The miracle

Committing suicide is by no means easy, even if you just have decided that this is the time. Then, on the other hand, it is way too easy. I cleared my mind, focusing on the task. Just a few moments now, and I'll be finally free! All the pain gone! I scouted the road, picked a good spot, then drove to a rest area for preparation. I had already mixed the tablet load with water and downed that. Threw the now-empty bottle out of the window, unfastened my seat belt, and started. Turned around, knew that the cliff that I was aiming at was right around the corned. Full throttle, gained as much speed as my car could handle. Cliff in sight, aim for it!

What happened took just a second or two.

Right at the moment - at that exact point in time and place - a deer jumped in front of me. It was dark, I had much overspeed, and I could see the animal only when it was right in front of me. Instinct: break and steer. Full brake, steer. Passed the deer, passed the cliff.

Stunned. What had just happened? Drove to the rest area where I was before, stopped the car there. Car had not a scratch. For some reason, I was not willing to try again. Anyway, I had a stomach-full of lethal medicine. Waiting would be fine. Right?

I waited for many hours. I felt weak, but stayed conscious. Finally, I decided to drive home and rethink my Plan. I had given a suicide message to a couple of my closest friends (that I still had left) and one of them picked me from my home, and took care for me for a couple days, maybe weeks, I don't remember anymore. That was good, since I surely would have continued in some other way, but also bad, since what he should have done is take me to ER right then, right now.

So, in the end, my life was saved by a split-second jump of a deer on my way. And, for some reason, the dose of blood pressure medication did not kill me either. I have later learned, that such doses have lead to some nasty treatments in intensive care environments. Go figure.

In short: A miracle, if I've ever seen one.

Recovery


That episode led me seeking help from a private psychiatrist, since my secret was now in the open, at least in the knowedge of my closest friends. That treatment didn't last long, since those guys are expensive. All in all, we were able to just scratch the surface back then. Fortunately, I was not required to testify in court, a written testimony was deemed to be enough. That was good, since to this day, I would not be capable to do it. What I shamefully have to admit is that I gave a false testimony, stating that what I had with the abuser was just a relationship, nothing more. Giving a false statement is a felony, but again: I had no choice. I couldn't testify, I cannot even now. I simply had no choice. He went to jail anyway.

Time passed, I still wasn't "fine". I experienced a short marriage that ended in a quick divorce, but for some reason, I was starting to drift out of the darkness where I had been lost for such a long time. I still hadn't been able to get such help that I would probably have needed, but despite that, things like self-hatred and self-harm seemed to slowly go away on their own. I stopped letting myself be abused; well, because the main abuser was in prison it was a no-brainer really. I finally learned to cope with at least some aspects of PTSD, with the help of some self-help literature.

I was able to process some of the things with a psychologist. How much this has truly helped I don't exactly know, but I still remember the horror in her face when I started telling about the Incident. Even as an adult, and not even as a very young adult, it was such an immense relief for me that someone took it seriously. And didn't blame it on me. And didn't think I was homosexual. And tried her very best to support me.

The only time I have had any longer therapy was with said psychologist. Reading about "check lists" here, and realizing how little I have completed is a sad thing. I am not whole, nor I think I will ever be. If I was a religious type, I would perhaps think that my life has been saved my divine intervention. As is, I am a man of science, but cannot fully accept what has happened as a pure coincidence either. Some kind of a guardian angel looking after me? Maybe my life has some purpose after all? Since I was worth saving? At least it is possible. Sometimes there still inside me the urge to harm myself, to hate all that I have done, but compared to what it once was, it is faint now. Something that can be snuffed and ignored.

Epilogue


I have been baffled, and still am, how almost all the services regarding sexual abuse or assault are directed to women. This was the case at the time of the Incident, and things are little better now. To say this feels bad is an understatement. Like - I already regard myself as trash, and what the world is saying to me is: "This is indeed so, you don't deserve any help, nor what has happened to you is in a way anything worth of note". I have never, ever seen in those crisis hotline ads even something so little as a mention "male victims can contact too". I completely understand that male victims are a minority. But the fact is that this minority is neglected almost completely. Men should be strong, men cannot be raped, etc. Men aren't victims, they are doers. That's the attitude. I remember, after the Incident, searching for help lines. All were for women. All. Every one of them. I didn't call anywhere. Still wouldn't, even after all this years and with all my experience. Because they are not for me. Because I am a man.

As for me, things have mostly settled. I have long since had a wife, a family, a well-paying job, and don't do (nearly) any alcohol nor smoke. Also practise sports regularly - and by the way this is something I highly recommend to everyone. The scars are there to stay, but I usually can live with them.

Final words: I have learned that regardless of how dirty you are on the outside, whatever you have done to yourself or let others do to you, there is always a pure, unspoiled inner someting in you that never can be tarnised nor broken. No matter how dark things may be, there is a brighter future ahead, even if there is no way to believe in it in the present. This is the principle I try to remember in my darkest hours.

Take care,

JS
 
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