Really wanted to take a nap with the toddler today, but I couldn't seem to fall asleep despite being exhausted and sick. Might have something to do with my heart pumping at 90bpm because of all the sudafed I took in an obviously vain attempt to clear some of the snot out of my head.
I dozed for a bit and then just let my mind wander around aimlessly. It tends to go into the darker corners if left to its own devices for long, and sure enough I soon found myself reflecting on my depression. Despite the reams of paper I’ve wasted over the years writing in my journal about how dreadful I felt, I’ve rarely taken the time or effort to think about it more objectively. I’m sure that’s related to the deep shame that accompanies my depression.
I started cutting the summer that I was 13. Back then I thought I was trying to kill myself. I didn’t know that I could just want to hurt myself. I didn't know anything about cutting, but I did understand that it would shock and horrify anyone who found out about it. The fear that someone would judge me truly sick, added to the shame I already felt, led to me hide that experience even from my own therapists a decade after I'd quit cutting.
Although I carry a few faint scars from those years, I rarely cut deep enough to do any lasting damage. Because getting caught was not an option. I still remember the first boy who ever refused denial about what I was doing: when I told him I’d scratched myself he grabbed my wrist and called me a liar to my face. I had to get rid of him, obviously.
Because worse than the mental and emotional anguish of my depression, was the idea of anyone finding out about it.