I’m not entirely convinced this is an occasion to celebrate, but I do feel it deserves acknowledgement. Today is a year since I last self harmed. Physically at least; one could argue I have still engaged in self destructive behaviours, but I haven’t cut, scratched or picked my arms for twelve months. And I guess in my own quiet way I am proud. It’s not that I haven’t had the urge, I absolutely have, time after time, and as recently as splitting with the boyfriend recently, but I’ve managed not to actually do anything.
I don’t particularly have a go-to strategy. Sometimes it’s a matter of distracting, other times it’s a case of extra meds and early bed. But whichever way, it has been consistently successful for a year now.
I know staying clean is possible – I did it for 14 years prior to becoming acutely ill again four years ago. Yet all that time I carried a small pocket knife in my handbag, it made me feel secure somehow, that it was there if I needed it. I still do. Even though I have no immediate plans to use it again.
I would love to believe that self harm as a coping strategy is one I can permanently put behind me, but I know better than to take anything for granted on this journey of life with mental illness. So I will just be thankful today that I have at least come this far.
Thanks for taking the time to read 👼🏻