It hardly broke the skin. (Probably just as well: the blade I used was a little rusty.) But I was in a bad place, my head scrambled by fear and stress: I couldn’t think straight. A tortuous feeling for one so reliant on intellect. So I gave in to the desire and experienced, in that instant as the blade sliced through a couple of layers of skin, a terrible clarity. A focus that cleaved through the turmoil. That intense instant of sharp, pure, cleansing, beautiful pain as I slowly drew the blade over my wrist.
Fully intentional, in control of my actions. No wild slashing for me: a slow, deliberate motion. Experience telling me just how much pressure to exert for the necessary effect without excessive harm.
What happened to cause this? I was cornered in my safe place, overloaded but going the way of dissociation rather than meltdown. But instead of being left alone to decompress I had to endure further provocation. I ended up with confusion rather than dissociation. The one beacon of hope, the one idea that my mind was able to present to cope was to relapse and cut myself.
I did it with the first blade I had to hand, on an old “waiter’s friend” bottle opener: I’ve used it in the past. I felt that same old release. The confusion sloughed away and my mind began to function again.
This wasn’t done for pleasure. It was desperation. I couldn’t see another way to regain control, to shock my mind back into its usual rhythm — just like defibrillation. It worked, and as the photo above shows I didn’t cause myself much harm. Not that I’m recommending this as a regular course of action.
I’ve had so much going through my mind recently; my blog posts didn’t give much away but I’m struggling: starting to feel burned out. I chatted to a few friends afterwards: they’re worried about me. A lot. They’re awesome and I don’t think I deserve them.
With impeccable timing aspermama has nominated me for a Liebster Award just in time for this, my 200th post. This isn’t some award from a nameless, faceless panel sat in isolation somewhere, but recognition from a fellow blogger, and as such it really means a lot to me. I cherish the opinions of my peers who know what it is like either to be on the autism spectrum, or to raise an autistic child.
Besides, apart from all that serious stuff, I think it will be fun to join in! Read more ›
I love shiny things. I love the way the light reflects off of them, dancing specular highlights that sparkle and hold my attention. Which is why I was delighted yesterday to receive a new penny as my change.
It has taken me a long time to accept I can’t live independently. All kinds of people manage it. I’m educated, literate, numerate and intelligent — I hate false modesty 😉 — with no physical disabilities. So it ought to be easy, right?
I only heard the term validation recently, but quickly realized that I was familiar with the concepts behind it. It is very much about recognizing and acknowledging emotions, both in ourselves and in others, something that I find difficult. This would be true for anybody with alexithymia, and I’d presume is fairly common across the autism spectrum as a result.
Why do I bother trying to tell you I’m overloaded and need to be left alone? That your soapbox monolog — the volume of your voice and your emotion-laden tone — are hurting me, costing me so much energy to maintain self-control that I am becoming rapidly exhausted. Are you listening to me? Can you hear me?
Shame has been at the forefront of my thoughts recently. I wrote a couple of posts about things I had not been able to talk about before because of the shame I felt: self-harm and violence. And before that were other bloggers’ thoughts about shame: autisticook, Musings of an Aspie and feminist aspie. But what is shame all about? What makes something shameful?