Why Do I Cut Myself?

I’m a man for whom many would characterize as an unconscionable rogue. I did nothing for the world or anyone in it. Yet, and I’m biased on this matter, I was a deliciously likable rogue. It’s true, I was loud, sometimes aggressive (if I was obliged to fight, then fight, I would).

I’m seldom wise in matters of importance and often foolish. I freely consorted with drunks, cheats, dreamers, criminals and had a great fondness for outrageous untruths.

If I were not to have described myself as a rogue, I must admit to being childlike. So, it might surprise you to learn I have a friend, a friend so close to my heart he doesn’t worry about his own misfortunes, only mine. He is, as he has so often told me, afraid for me.

This friend has rarely been happy, something for which he blames me. It started a long time ago and continued through a time when I can say I was radiantly happy, loving myself so much I could bend over to kiss my own arse.

Other than me, he has no other friends. I mean everything to him. If you could hear him, he would tell you he has had no genuine happiness other than what I’ve shared with him.

It has always bothered me why we are so close. I don’t even share our friendship with others. For as long as I’ve understood my friend’s voice, he knows which side of our bread is buttered.

He hasn’t forgiven me. Even going back to that period of happy time, times, I wandered the world in my own sweet way, not caring who ruled the world. I remember the times he asked me, at first quietly, why do this to yourself? It’s shameful.

I had been taking advantage of his creativity to amass a fortune. I didn’t listen to him; he made no sense. Then he would yell, I mean fiercely, scream, sounding like a crazed half-wit. “You’re hurting yourself; you’re hurting yourself.” I’d yell back. “So what? It’s my body, my life, not yours.” That’s when he raised the roof, blew it clean off, and I couldn’t hear anything for the wind of his voice screaming.

I was hurting myself. In fact, I became a cutter, my arms, legs, and face because the pain lessened his screaming. “It’s not just your life; it’s my life, my life! The least you can do is live the life you were born to live, not this façade, this egocentric, maniacal, selfish existence. I gave you the gifts, all of them, you are nothing, and you won’t be anything without me. Nothing!”

I started doing things I thought would kill me, anything but suicide. Go out in a blaze of glory. Run into a burning house. Hang gliding — all excuses I made for the injuries to my body. I couldn’t harm myself enough but never knew I was doing it. I’d wake up to wounds, self-inflicted, but when and how? I knew very well what lies I would tell as an excuse for my wounded appearance.

So long after, and ruined financially, I wondered if he would ever die. Him, the voice in my head.

In my mind, I had killed him with my selfish ego when finally I no longer heard his voice. My life was changed. I was happy, broke, uncreative, and unafraid. I had lost my wealth and gained true love and family.

But now he’s returned, he is bright and fresh and so creative. He is calm. He tells me. “I’m just me, don’t make me into something I’m not. Just keep me safe, hidden, secure in the knowledge I’ll be here for you. Trust me. Let’s not do it over again. You lost the ability to hear me and look what happened to you.”

My friend is not wrong. He is, in fact, so right it is laughable. I did lose touch with him. What followed was hell, full of guilt complexes, drunken escapades, hangovers, deceit, lies, health, and vitality gone, along with the gift of creativity. I became a nobody inside two years. The banks owned me, flogged me, locked me up, took away my self-esteem. I hadn’t listened to my friend, blocked him, denied his existence. I was paying a cruel price for not having paid attention.

I felt very alone, lonely.

The voice isn’t another side of me who, in his moment, can play the piano when I cannot. He cannot speak French when I know only English. He can, though, provide creativity that I don’t have. I’ve heard the words bi-polar. This is not who I am, nor is it my condition. Bipolar disorder is a relatively common mental disorder compared with the other two disorders. Bipolar disorder is also well-understood and readily treated by a combination of medications and psychotherapy.

My psychiatrist, a nice enough chap, tells me my disorder used to be known as multiple personality disorder (and is still commonly referred to as such in the media) but is now known by its newer clinical name, dissociative identity disorder (DID). DID is characterized by a set of distinct identities that a person believes to exist within themselves. These identities can talk to the person, and the person can answer back. The identities often are formed to help a person cope with different parts of his or her life and seem to have distinct personalities that are unique and different than the person’s core personality. In my case, perhaps child trauma. It is still to be known.

Sometimes, people with DID or DD will lose track of time or cannot account for blocks of time during their day. This occurs when one of the identities within the person takes control of the individual and engages in behaviors that the core personality would otherwise not engage in.

I’m a person with some form of DID. I cannot be assertive in difficult situations, allowing the stronger identity to take over.

I am presently faced with looking back over my life, dealing with childhood trauma, and suffering the consequences of not listening to the assertive part of my personality in my youthful years. I’ve once again started cutting and damaging myself to make the voice go away. I then tell my wife, and anyone I encounter, a lie about how I received these injuries.

I am fearful of what will happen to me, the love I have in my life, the peaceful existence I have enjoyed for twenty years. So much to lose.

I don’t know what will happen. There is a wall, and it is black, and it is high. Taking small steps, letting people love me and support me feels safe. I don’t know if it really is. I don’t know if I can stop cutting.

I don’t know if I can put an end to my friend.

----------

YOUR FEELINGS ARE VALID.

Need support?

Text HOME to 741741 for free, 24/7 crisis counseling. We’re here for you.