Should I Have Intervened?

My first year of college I was taking a math class. I noticed a boy who sat in my front of me had friends he would laugh and talk with. And one day I got a glance, it just caught my eye, of some cuts on his wrist. He found ways to hide them, but every now and again I’d see a glimmer of them.

And I wondered for weeks if I should say something.

I considered going up to him, pulling my sleeve up and say, “I do it too.”

I thought about how I wouldn’t want anyone to call me out on it if they saw my own.

I thought about how hard he tried to hide it and so I should respect that.

I thought about whether intervening was something I should do for his safety.

But I was in the middle of my own battle with self injury.

And I never did anything.

And I can never get it out of mind…

I never did or say anything to him.

Should I have?

-Quinn

The Night of The Cut *Graphic Self Harm Trigger Warning*

******TRIGGER WARNING: Anorexia somewhat and EXTREMELY GRAPHIC SELF HARM******

DO NOT READ THIS IF YOU ARE EASILY TRIGGERED BY SELF HARM ESPECIALLY IN GRAPHIC DETAIL.

You have been warned.

This is probably the single most important story in my life. It led to a cascade of events: hospitalization, my correct diagnosis of bipolar, getting kicked out of school, and finally getting the real help I needed.

It was 6am when I finally asked my ex-boyfriend for my knife back. We aren’t on speaking terms and we are clear that we can never be. We’re either together or not. And together is awful, dangerous, addicting, full of love, full of hate.

Today I see him to get it back, so I stress out about it of course. I overthink what I will wear. I felt the need to show him how much my appearance has changed, how much have changed. Both of which are major improvements.

Should I go laid back in my cute dorm-room college girl get up all from Victoria’s Secret? Or should I go with my traditional assemble which people describe as “edgy” because its boots and leather jackets and what not?
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Unseen Contributor to Teen Mental Illness?

It has been bothering me for a few years now. The surge in young teens who seem absorbed in mental illness.

I first noticed it after I’d had my iphone for a while. Probably over a year after (I was 18 when I got it). I’d been diagnosed when i was 17, and was probably 19 when I noticed. I was on instagram when I got the random desire to see if there were posts about mental illness on there.

And what I saw horrified me.

Kids as young as 12 were posting horrible photos. Typically it was just the cliche depressed quotes over and over again. But there were also photos of other things… there was “thinspiration” where people would post skinny girls who were their “goal” look in terms of thinness. And then there was the pencil test to determine if you really are thin or not, so people posted pictures of those. And pictures of thigh gaps. But I can’t relate to eating disorders, never had one and don’t think I ever will. Then there were ones that flooded my search and were even triggering to me- self harm photos. They were everywhere. I was horrified.
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Angeline

profound

I found this on Queer Secrets, an LGBT Tumblr blog devoted to posting the “secrets” that people send in.  I know what it is like to feel this way about someone, at least to a degree.  My person, however, was a boy.  I will give him the pseudonym Angeline here, because like with Genevieve, I want him to have a pretty name.  Angeline also means “angel”, and he was that to me also.

He was my angel because he was my friend.  I often teased him, and he’d retaliate by chasing me around the yard we all called a playground.  When he was given detention, I skipped my recess to be with him.  When I found out he self-injured, I told Davina (another pseudonym) what was going on.  Davina was the head teacher there, and she told Angeline’s mother, Kaleela (pseudonym), what was happening.  I was known as so close to Angeline that one day, I asked Davina what was wrong with him.  She looked a little hesitant, but led me outside.

“You know that Angeline had a brain tumor when he was very young, right?  Well, that tumor affected his brain in certain ways.  Much like your mother’s stroke affected her.  As a result, Angeline cannot always tell appropriate behavior from inappropriate behavior.  He needs special help for that.  He also has a hard time with reading and writing, just like your mother.”
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My Bipolar Face is Not MY Face.

It is Worldwide Bipolar Disorder day (okay so this post is a couple minutes past midnight, but close enough). From what I’ve gathered, we are supposed to show our faces.

But I will do no such thing. My anonymity is essential to my life.

I severely cut myself late November two years ago. I was rushed to the ER by my roommates where I was stitched back up. I was lucky I didn’t hit any major blood vessels. If you look close enough, you can see a large vessel right above the scar. But it was deep enough to see my tendon. At that time, I was in throes of some sort of mood chaos. I hadn’t been diagnosed with bipolar yet. I later found out that my therapist was desperately trying to contact my psychiatrist to get me off those medications immediately because they were making me worse.

Friends would come over for game night, which I didn’t participate in, but I did do my best to be as distracting as possible. I would get into these moods, where I’d laugh hysterically, ramble away. I’d lose myself. I thought I was just having a good time. On occasion I would clean my fish tank with such focus, I demanded perfection, not a drop of dirt (even if some remaining dirt is good), it had to be pristine.

I would prepare myself for studying by taking a knife to my skin. It soothed the thoughts, it soothed the chaos. And when I lost focus, when my friend tutoring me got too frustrating, I would cut myself again to regain focus. Cutting myself worked better than any stimulant I’ve ever taken for focus.

One night we had friends over and I was lost in this person who wasn’t me- but a “better version” of me. She would jump around and entertain everyone. She had the idea to play shirtless Twister. So all the guys did. And then she decided to test her roommate, to see if she had the guts to do it too. She did, with some encouragement. The whole idea was stupid, pointless. But this version of me was so desperate to do something wild, and nothing ever seemed to be enough. My friends were too tame, and that was best for me, even if I hated it.

Another night we were returning from a store and pulling into the campus parking lot when a police officer holding a shotgun stopped us. We were informed there was a gunman on campus and we needed to go elsewhere until he was found.

I found this hilarious.

We went to our friend’s place and I was energized. I was excited about the gunman. My friend’s roommate was rather cute and in the military (which was a big bonus to me), so I tried to flirt with him, I wanted to drink with him. But some part of me was too scared. Some part of me knew I was acting way out of line, and unattractively so. So instead I tried to calm down by laying on the couch and fiddling with my knife, particularly pleased with myself because it made my roommate nervous.

When we were finally cleared to return to campus, I plopped down on my roommate’s bed. I started laughing hysterically. And tears began to stream down my eyes. Between fits of laughter I asked them if they wanted to know something hilarious. They said sure. I laughed as I cried, and hiccuped the words, “My therapist tried to force me to go to the hospital today… Isn’t that hilarious!?!” I stopped laughing, I wiped the tears off my face, and left the room. My friends exchanged concerned glances.

My bipolar has never been the most extreme. Perhaps because I am so young still. The trip to the ER was a changing point though. My parents received the bill, I asked to go into outpatient treatment, and the treatment center decided I needed to be inpatient. Sometime in that process I was diagnosed bipolar, I don’t even remember it.

The paperwork says I was crying and laughing during my initial evaluation. That I said, “I don’t care if I die. And I have 17 knives at home.”

I later lied and said they misheard me, I only had 7- not 17.

I actually had 21.

In any case, the whole experience was a wake up call. I still can’t believe the way I acted. The way I told everyone cutting wasn’t a problem, that it was fine, and I was safe. When the reality is that less than an inch made the difference between life and death for me.

The school suspended me for cutting myself on campus. I was told I’d be arrested if I came on campus. I was evicted, with a police escort.

But that’s another story.

I think that perhaps I was in a mixed episode for most the beginning of the second year of college. I was so up but I was also so down. I would cut as punishment. I would cut to focus. I would cut if I was happy. I would cut if I simply felt like it. I did it constantly. And the therapist saw what was coming when he tried to force me into the hospital. He saw that ER trip coming.

I know I talk a lot about self harm. For me, it goes hand in hand with bipolar.

I was doing well with abstaining until my last episode, which was this last winter. I had nothing to lose, so I was cutting myself again. My legs still show sleek red lines going in every direction. The mania wanted me to.

With me, there are no neat, clean cut, straight lines. I go to town, slicing and dicing with anger. There is nothing calculated or calm or in control about it. Look at the scars, you’ll see.

The mania also wanted me to vandalize things. I felt as if no one understood what I was feeling. I would wake up fine, but I’d quickly degrade. For some reason, I was possessed by the need to make it worse. So I would take too much Ritalin and I’d drink coffee. I left the house to go to therapy when I came up with a brilliant plan. I was going to go to a popular mall and cut words into the bathroom stall, then cut myself, smear my hand with blood, and leave a bloody hand print right there on the stall wall.

I needed people to know. And not just know- but feel. I was terrified of myself, I couldn’t slow down and I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted someone to walk into that bathroom stall and feel the terror the hand print was sure to elicit.

People had to know.

So I went to a sporting good store and bought a cheap utility knife (since all mine had been entrusted to someone for safe keeping). But the traffic on the freeway caused me to miss my opportunity. I had to go to the psychiatrist and I didn’t have time to stop by the mall.

The idea lingered in my head but I never did it. My therapist said she almost involuntarily hospitalized me for my urges to vandalize.

Another idea I had was to go to the local park and carve words into the trees. It was daytime, so I went for a walk. I casually strolled around the park, stopping to examine trees, trying not to be too suspicious as other people were there. I did hide behind a tree and barely scrawled the words, “Help me” into a tree, but you’d never be able to tell. But I had plans… plans to come back later that night when it would be empty and leave large, blatant messages in prominent trees. I specifically wanted to write, “I’ve gone mad.” Or something like it. And then, in a hidden spot, where only the adventurous would see, I’d leave a secret message, “Help me.”

But when I made an excuse to leave that night, I decided to go to the bookstore before the vandalism. I wandered around the bookstore, I tried to focus on the titles of the books but my vision blurred far too much. I wandered around, paranoid that everyone knew I was not okay. The bookstore overwhelmed me. There were too many books, too many people, too much of everything. So I drove home, back to that park. But I detoured. I saw the Christmas lights. And I drove down a street that was heavily decorated. The euphoria washed over me. I drove around for however long, just admiring the lights. (I’ve never been impressed by Christmas lights, by the way). In the end I decided trees were just too beautiful to ruin with my knife.

Another day it was raining but I was desperate to go soak it in. I told my mom I was going for a walk and grabbed an umbrella. But the rain stopped and I found myself at the park alone. I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t want to carve the trees because it was my good knife (that I paid a lot of money for). So instead I found the swing set. And I popped in some earbuds. The euphoria was intense. But I also had paranoia, so I tucked my knife into my hand, positioning it so I could pop it open in a second and … well, you know.

Of course this was ridiculous, as the closest entrance I had full view of, and an attacker would have to walk across a large open field to get anywhere near me from behind (and I checked constantly).

I could go on about the mania I felt this last winter. It was the first time I knew I was manic. I’m only 21, my episodes aren’t very severe. But I still have many years ahead of me. I know now that my bipolar can take charge at any moment. I had to miss my last quarter of school because I simply went to class high on pills, then I’d cut between classes, and I couldn’t focus. I was just too manic.

I just started my first day of the new quarter. It was terrifying.

I wrote this and it is very disorganized. But that in itself is what mania is for me. It is chaos in my mind.

Mania is a 5’4, 97lb female with dirty blonde hair, brown eyes, an asymmetrical pixie cut, a small assortment of bold ear piercings, and a tattoo on her side rib cage. It is that girl being the life of the party, laughing while crying, cutting herself, plotting to vandalize to make a statement. A girl sitting on her bed, head in hands, her thoughts screaming, “SHUT UP SHUT UP” over and over again, trying to make the whirlwind stop so she could do something as simple as brushing her teeth.

So you want to see the face of a bipolar person? Well I can’t show you that. My career goals don’t allow me to make my disorder public, just yet.

But I’ll compromise. You can see how I intended to look during my vandalism urges (minus the sunglasses).

While some may brave a bare face… my true bipolar face, is not my bare face.

This is what bipolar looks like on me.

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Self Destructive Habits

People see the scars on my arms and legs and they tell me to stop in various ways.

But what people don’t see is all the other ways I harm myself. I get myself into bad self-destructive situations. I smoke, I drink, I take a little too much Xanax, I get into pointless arguments.

Self-harming isn’t just cutting yourself or even burning, hitting, etc.

The actions you take can be self harm too.

It may not be the definition. Maybe it doesn’t count. But to me, these are ways I hurt myself.

I’m putting myself in a situation that will lead to bad consequences. But I can’t help myself. I don’t know how to stop.

I don’t want to talk about the situation… I told myself I’d turned over a new leaf. Yet here I am following this path of self destruction once again. And I don’t know how to make it stop.

People like me get one hell of a bad reputation. But… maybe if they were in my situation, they’d realize how hard it is. Maybe they wouldn’t think so badly of me. Well, I think badly of myself. But it feels out of control, I feel myself going through the actions, getting myself into this situation, and feeling helpless.

I just gotta hold on till I see my therapist. I need real advice, I have a real problem here.

I don’t want to be this person anymore.

Do No Harm

I’m… I’m scared to say it.

But I think I’m finally ready to give this whole “recovery” thing a try.

I’ve always half-assed the stopping self-harm thing. Kinda shrugged, said sure, whatever. Glided by with my therapist, occasionally didn’t mention that I slipped up.

Yeah I was scared after I cut my wrist wide open, and that slowed me down. And then other things slowed me down, like my boyfriend who said I had to stop but it had to be for “me” (which I said it was- mostly a lie). Or my Hawaii trip where I wanted to wear shorts without fresh scars.

But today… maybe it is the little bit of alcohol in my blood…

But I feel like… I should give it a shot.

I just hope I don’t change my mind.

Because the ink I put in my skin today?

“Do no harm… Have no fear.”

It has a lot of meaning to it.

But it is pretty straight forward.

“Do no harm,” that applies to myself as well.

And maybe I should give it a try.

3/25/15 is the day then.

“Have no fear.”

Random story time!

One day an incident between my mom and I sparked something like mania in me.

I was offended that she still felt she had control over me, so I was determined to move out. And not just move out, but completely erase any trace of me in the house. I wanted my bedroom to become a guest room, so that there was no returning.

In that time I spent hours cleaning my room, throwing anything and everything out that wasn’t necessary. I got rid of a lot of junk, which was good in the long run. But I also knew I’d have to get a job to support myself since I knew my parents wouldn’t pay for an apartment- and I didn’t want them to either.

I went out shopping for clothes to wear to interviews. I did end up buying a very nice outfit- which was another good thing because I did end up wearing it to an interview that got me a job (months later).

Another weird thing I did was completely shut everybody out of my life. I told my then-boyfriend that I couldn’t talk to him at all. I didn’t contact anybody, I barely spoke to my parents. I was in auto pilot.

I tore down half my posters, only half because I was manic. I was in this… trance. Where everything I did was to move out and distance myself from my parents.

This phase lasted about a week before I suddenly became very tired and realized I wasn’t capable of supporting myself and going through college at the same time.

It was an interesting week, I’ve never had a similar phase. It did end up with good things- cleaner room, clothes for a job interview.

But it also left things half done- like the posters that took me months before I put new ones up. This phase was about a year and a half ago, at least (I don’t remember exactly when, it must have been when my school suspended me because I didn’t have any school obligations keeping me from my task). And it is only now that I threw out one of the posters I torn down.

I just remember the productivity was through the roof and then it collapsed all at once.

I guess I’m remembering this because I’ve been cleaning my room. And also because I kind of want to move out again… but I know there’s no way that’ll happen anytime soon. It won’t happen for years. And plus, when I did live alone, it was a bad time for me. I would talk to myself, which is understandable but it disturbed me a little. It was just weird and I realize that it’s good I’m not alone. I need people around to keep me in check. If my boyfriend and I broke up, I’d be able to go back to cutting. If I lived alone, it might turn into a very very severe problem again. I know I’d be drinking a lot, maybe abusing my prescriptions more than usual.

I’m in a good situation right now and I need to stick with it. I just wish that my life was different in some ways.

 

The Dangers of Online Mental Health Quizzes

Alright so this is a big topic for me. A fellow author posted a link to a ridiculous quiz on Facebook that I feel the need to (and was asked to) write about.

I am going to take this quiz, step by step, and report exactly what I think about it. And after I will tell you why these quizzes aren’t just silly or stupid, but dangerous (with my anecdote evidence- reliable I know).

Alright, so when you click on the quiz, it starts off by saying, “Are you prone to dramatic and unpredictable mood-swings? What about anxiety and frustration? What’s your level of uniqueness? Find that all out right here.” Right off the bat I am annoyed. This perpetuates the stereotype that bipolar is sudden changes in mood. Going from happy to sad and back in a second. Unless you have extremely rapid-cycling bipolar, this is very unlikely. Bipolar is experienced in episodes. Generally meaning they have to last at least a few days. Although I do have little spikes of bipolar feelings, they aren’t full episodes and are mostly just annoying.

And for anxiety and frustration, yeah those can happen. I have anxiety that is sometimes correlated with my bipolar. But bipolar itself doesn’t specify that you need to have anxiety. Additionally, “frustration?” Really? Who doesn’t experience that? And lastly- “What’s your level of uniqueness?” That makes me want to hit my face on my keyboard. Being bipolar is unique in a sense, because a small amount of the population experiences it. But in this context it is taken in a positive way. In the United States we have a culture where individualism and self-expression is very important. If you’re unique, then it’s usually considered a good thing. But as far as I’m concerned, bipolar is not a good thing.

And then, of course, it adds that this should be used as a diagnostic test. And I’ll explain later why that really doesn’t matter.
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Unhealthy Study Habits

One time my therapist asked me one of the most personally significant questions I’ve ever heard.

She said, “What is more important to you? Cutting yourself in order to ace the test… or putting your health first and failing the test?”

(Just to explain, I used to cut myself before studying because it helped soothe me and allowed me to focus. I got all the pent up anxiety out that way so I could “ace the test.”)

And it was so embarrassing to tell her the truth. The truth I’d lived numerous times over and over. The truth that got me through so much of college.

I told her, “I’d rather cut and ace the test.”

Because it is true. To me, my academics and my future career are so much more important than my health is.

And I know that’s messed up.

But we are so hardwired to believe that success is more important than anything. That being a hard worker is so desirable.

That we ignore the damage it can have on us.

The worst part is, if you asked me that same question over again today- I’d still have the same answer.

-Quinn