When Cuts Become Scars
By: Anonymous
I was in a toxic relationship. This other figure in my relationship hurt me both physically and emotionally. They manipulated me into believing that I felt better after being around them. I’m referring to self harm; my significant other for far too long. For me, it became an addiction.
I hate lying to people about the scars on my left arm, so I might as well just own up to it now. I see people almost every day, and the excuses and staring have become exhausting. Some of the excuses I’ve used in the past: falling off a bike when I was younger and getting scratched by a cat. It is more painful to admit that I was experiencing severe depression and anxiety that caused me to induce pain upon myself, than the act of actually carrying out the pain.
Previous to some of these medications, I had only heard about self harm from close friends that had confided in me. When they had told me what they were doing and why they were doing it, I could perhaps relate to the feeling of emptiness they were experiencing, but could not at all imagine wanting to hurt my own body.
I’m going to emphasize one medication in this article, because from the day I put the first pill in my mouth, to the final day I took Zoloft, my life was completely out of my hands. I became this machine that was told what to do by the inventor (my psychiatrist): take 1 pill every morning. That was what I was supposed to do in order to produce the correct results: happiness.
When I first started taking Zoloft one of my best friends was completely against this idea. I remember the phone call like it was yesterday. “Just be careful about those medications. In some cases they can shift your thinking.” That would never happen to me I thought. I could never imagine wanting to take my own life or hurt myself. I considered my life to be almost completely perfect. The only reason I wanted to take a medication was to cure sporadic moments of anxiety.
I had tried medications prior to Zoloft. This would be the last SSRI I would ever take. My brain is different than hers, his, theirs. In no way is Zoloft some horrible drug that will make each individual who takes it think the exact way I did. In fact I know many who admit that Zoloft has changed their life, helped cure depression, and has become a healthy routine for them. For me, this just wasn’t the case. I am openly talking about this in order to share my story revolving around manipulative psychiatric care, not as an attempt to slander the medication.
It took about a month for me to start feeling 30 percent less anxious. Up my dose went. 3 months went by and I started feeling a lot less anxious. Up my dose went. There was never a plateau that I reached, even when I told my psychiatrist that I thought the medication was doing its job. The dosage kept going up, and I kept feeling better and as if 250 mg should be a good stopping point.
“Let’s just stick to that”
“Well, do you feel 100 percent not anxious? Because that’s what we’re going for.”
“I feel 8.5/10.”
“Then your dose needs to go up a little. It’s trial and error. Don’t worry.”
I can’t even remember the first, second, or third time I self harmed. I can’t even remember why. I do remember the feeling and urge to self harm. It was a relief. Cutting myself added pain in order to take it away.
I had genuine supports who knew what was going on, and tried ruthlessly to help me. I couldn’t understand why I felt so sad, irritated, or lonely. I remember sitting on the couch one time and thinking to myself “why do I feel like this right now? Can you please stop feeling like this? Just stop! You have nothing to worry about or be sad about.” That absolutely never helped.
There was one particular incident, that potentially I will share in the future, that was the wake up call. I ended up attending two separate intensive outpatient therapeutic programs. Something that I want to emphasize is how important it is to find a therapist/psychiatrist/ therapeutic program (if you pursue that path to find help) that is the right fit for you. The first IOP I went to, was not the right fit for me. I didn’t enjoy the lay out of each session. I felt pressured to talk about issues I wasn’t ready to talk about, and I didn’t relate to the other individuals in the sessions.
The second IOP was an entirely different story. I made friends in the group who didn’t even necessarily have the same issues as me, but who did have open hearts and ears to listen and help. One of the girls I became closest with was recovering from an eating disorder, and although we could hardly relate she was a tremendous aid in my own recovery process.
Today I am still on a medication routine. This routine was monitored for a long time, with weekly meetings with my psychiatrist to check in on how I was feeling. I would like to say that I have finally cracked the code, and entered a world where I can safely take medication and it actually does it’s job. I don’t love being reminded of my previous days on Zoloft by looking down at my left arm, although I am not ashamed or scared anymore. The point is, I don’t have recent cuts on my arm, and I’m not sitting on the couch wondering why for the love of God I feel so horribly sad. I have some scars, but I have a lot of happiness and clarity. I am not a machine anymore, I am a human being who is doing the best they can to live every day in the moment and embrace the wonderful life they have.
