Thursday

I actually slept and woke up feeling groggy and much calmer and I certainly didn’t feel like I needed to die immediately. The drug was working. After a shower and a coffee, the grogginess dissipated and I felt mildly hypomanic but in a productive happy kind of way, I got the kids ready, fed the pets, tidied up a bit and then dropped the kids off at the bus stop on my way into town. I was thinking (comparatively) logically, I had to get a registration pass on Hubby’s car and buy a gift for my niece in QLD and post it off today in case I died on Friday.

The mechanic wasn’t open yet as I had made good time into town so I went to my favourite café and ordered my usual long black and this time a gluten free muffin too. I was feeling rather care free, Bel was nowhere to be seen and if I was going to die the next day who the hell cared about the calories anyway? I could only eat half though as I felt full, fullness is a feeling I don’t experience often, my binging habits have made it quite unrecognisable. 

Then I remembered that this particular anti-psychotic had an appetite suppressing effect on me and chuckled to myself at the irony. I dropped off the car and walked back to the nearby shopping mall, I only had $100 left in my once “flush enough to catch a plane somewhere distant and kill myself account” and decided to spend it on random crap that caught my eye instead. 

Armed with shopping bags I headed along the footpath back to the mechanic’s workshop to pick up the car, but then I spotted the club out of the corner of my eye. Once upon a time I had gambled there regularly. I took a deep breath and made a left turn through its glass doors.

The lady at reception smiled, “Good morning” and I replied “Hi, I think my membership might have actually expired…” she took my licence to check and I made a mental decision NOT to renew my membership, if it was meant to be it would be. “Sorry, it has expired but you live out of town so we can just sign you in today anyway” she smiled and handed me back my licence and a little printout. “Uh thanks…” I said and made a bee line for my favourite pokie. 

I had a ten-dollar note left in my wallet, just this, no more I lied to myself, low bets, make it last. Dammit I had literally bragged to my shrink on Tuesday that I hadn’t gambled in nearly a year. I would just lose this $10 and it would prove to me that gambling was bad. But of course Lady luck was smiling on me and I kept winning and winning and winning so I upped the bet, then I upped it again, then I got a feature inside a feature inside a feature. I don’t know how much I could have potentially walked away with, but when I finally did stand up and walk away I was still $200 richer.

Hiding the money in a secret section of my wallet I scrunched up the little “sign in” ticket and put it in a bin, I was never here, just like old times. I slowly dissolved back into mildly manic Suzi  wondering what had gotten into me as I picked up the car, drove home, cleaned the linen cupboard and the fish tank and made a pie from scratch. I hate cooking, particularly anything that involves effort but thought I should give the family something decent for a change, since it might be the last time I would cook for them and all. 

My thoughts were speeding up again so I went for a run to calm down and ran the furthest and fastest I ever had. When it was time to pick up the kids I remembered that I wouldn’t be home for dinner anyway so I gave Mr 14 instructions on turning off the oven and setting the table, I would have to leave about 20 minutes before hubby got home and drive back out to the school with my daughter who was doing public speaking and had been selected to perform in “speech night”. 

I kept becoming aware that my leg was bouncing uncontrollably as I looked around at the room full of little children, nervous about speaking about topics way beyond their years in front of a room full of adults and admired their innocence and being glad I was able to come and support Miss 8. She did brilliantly too, she had memorised the whole speech and was very expressive and engaging and I was really proud of her. I chatted to some parents after who commented on how well Miss 8 had performed and I was aware that I was talking far too quickly but was hoping they didn’t notice.

If they did, they didn’t say anything.

When we got home I popped another antipsychotic and watched a movie in bed, “The Heist” would this be the last movie I ever saw or would the antipsychotics keep Bel in her box and I would live to see many more? I still wasn’t hungry and realised I hadn’t eaten since the half a muffin that morning. This was the kind of side effect I was more than happy with. I still couldn’t stop bouncing so hubby suggested I make use of the excess energy and we had sex. I managed 3 orgasms and still had trouble falling asleep listening to music and writing poetry on my phone for hours while hubby snored beside me. Instead of getting annoyed, I enjoyed the sound – after all, this might be the last time I would ever hear it.

The Scars of our Souls

Today is self-injury awareness day, so I thought I’d do a post to celebrate. 

Celebrate? Well that really appears to be the wrong word for this sort of sensitive topic doesn’t it? Perhaps, but I am celebrating because spreading awareness makes a real difference and even if we are hiding behind a computer screen, it is still spreading the message. 

Perhaps I am also celebrating because proudly I can say that I haven’t self-harmed in a long time now, probably close to a year? I haven’t been counting. I have had the urge to a few times lately, but I have been able to stop myself. I actually burned my arm by accident taking a tray out of the oven the other day and have been freaking out that people with notice and think "she's doing it again".

When people see the scars on my arms 90% of them don’t have any idea why they are there, perhaps because injuring one’s self on purpose is a concept so far removed from the minds of those who have good mental health that when they see someone who doesn’t follow the society stereotypes of an “Emo” or appear to be acting overtly crazy then surely there must be a logical explanation.

Their ignorance is mostly obvious because so many people who notice my scars will comment on them. If people actually thought they were from self-harm at first glance, then they wouldn’t say anything, chances are they would stop making eye contact and awkwardly talk about the weather until they could walk away and we didn’t have to see each other again.

I get commonly asked things such as “were you a chef by trade?” the first time I heard that one was from a customer at work and I didn’t realise they had noticed my arms so I laughed and asked “Why on earth do you ask that?” to which the person said “Oh I just thought because of all the burn scars on your arms, my nephew is a chef and he has the same thing”. I was taken by surprise and didn’t know what to say which made the rest of our interaction rather uncomfortable. 

Now when I get the ‘chef’ comment I usually just laugh and say “Obviously not a very good one!” which seems to satisfy people. If customers or strangers directly ask me “what happened to your arms?” I tend to just reply “burns, I’m pretty uncoordinated”.  Which are both true statements, they just happen to be unrelated. Imagine if I said “Well those

scars you see on my body are simply the trademarks of the invisible scars on my soul.” Conversation stopper right there.

A lady I worked with in a government department years ago was also bipolar, I had already known, but she told me this one day when we were having a D & M. I laughed and said ‘maybe that’s why we get along so well, so am I” She just grinned like she had been heard for the first time and rolled up her sleeve to reveal arms covered in winding tattoos of cherry blossoms and vine leaves. She looked at me as if to test me and said “I suppose you do stupid things like this too then?” I looked closer and beneath the tattoos were hundreds of fine white lines, scars of varying lengths.

I smiled back and rolled up my sleeve to reveal my own history “Yep.” From that point on we looked out for each other, if one of us was having a bad day a coffee would suddenly appear on our desk with a smiley face post it note saying “luv ya!” Finally, somebody I knew in real life ‘got me’ and I didn’t have to explain a thing. 

Causes of self-harm vary widely and it’s a very individual thing; for me has always been about punishment rather than trying to “feel”. Inflicting pain or giving myself a scar to remind me of the ‘bad’ thing I have done and theoretically prevent me doing it again; ironically when I do hurt myself I am usually so angry that I don’t feel any pain from the wound anyway and I always inevitably do that ‘bad’ thing again anyway.

I think it is the self-hatred of my eating disorder that triggers me more than the bipolar depression; 90% of my scars are punishments for having eaten or binged. Some of the risk taking behaviours of my mania’s may also be considered 'acts of self-harm' officially, but for me they are less intentional acts and more of an impulsive recklessness. They ‘feel’ like two very different things.

One day I hope that I will be able to be more honest about my scars, stand up tall for mental health and contribute towards ending the stigma in person rather than just behind a keyboard. But for now the truth is reserved for the pages of my blog and people in my life that I love and trust while long sleeves continue to hide my struggles from the outside world. 

Do you, or have you self-harmed?   

If you do, is it a coping mechanism or punishment? 

Can you be comfortably honest about it or is this something you are working towards?