Continuing from part two …

I did things for people when they asked simply because they asked and I didn’t want to disappoint them. I cared more for peoples’ happiness rather than my own. It sounds stupid, but when you don’t give two cents about yourself it’s very easy to put yourself in harm’s way. There was nothing about me I liked so there was nothing about me I wanted to protect. Rather than finding someone worthy and deserving of me I pretty much gave myself to whoever asked and whoever seemed interested.

During my time of transitioning from self-harming to promiscuity, I became involved with multiple men, all of who I was never attracted to. I participated in outrageous sexual acts but never enjoyed even a minute of it. My body was there but my mind was not. I hated what I was doing and hated myself even more after it was done. Much was requested from me even though I wanted very little from them. After a while, it became routine; meet a guy, exchange contacts, set a day, they get what they want and I leave even more broken than I was before. I started equating being requested for sex to interest or even love. In a way, I started to believe these men I slept with gave a damn about me when in reality they only wanted one thing. I was trash, usable, gullible, naive to agree when they requested, and weak to say no. Unfortunately, this went on for years.

I am described as aloof, awkward, weird, unusually quiet. Terms I actually agree with. I was socially inept, unable to start and maintain a simple conversation, it was something that brought me great anxiety. Most of my time was spent alone, even at home with my family; I would normally lock myself in my room hours at a time, only emerging for food or to use the bathroom; this was my norm, my daily routine. I hated to go outside and simply to put the clothes on the line caused panic attacks. The sight and presence of people always had me on edge, nervous, and dis-shelved. I knew this was obvious to whoever’s presence I would be in. So it’s a bit conflicting for someone like me to go all the way out of my comfort zone to engage with not one but many men. And even more conflicting is though I was sexually active, I hated everything about my body. To me, it was imperfect and riddled with innumerable flaws. So extreme was the self-hate that I avoided wearing certain types of clothing because I assumed it would draw stares.

I wanted to change how I saw myself, so in an attempt to be self-confident I decided to face my fears. One day on an errand run with my mom, I wore a blouse that exposed what I was self-conscious about; stretch marks. Yeah, you read it right, stretch marks, just to name one of the many things about my body that I hated. These long red spiraling lines formed unusual patterns and many expanded to look more like craters on various parts of my body. How could I be comfortable with them? And to make matters worse the majority of clothing items are designed to be fashionably skimpy with not much material left to cover certain parts of the body, namely areas I wished not to show. The women I see and even idolized in movies, magazines, and the beloved of the world appeared not to have these plaguing lines on their perfect bodies so I often kept mine covered, figuring I was the odd one out. But less than ten (10) minutes into my “learning to love myself phase” my paranoid mind started working in overdrive. I saw many people talking amongst themselves, though I did not hear what they were saying my mind certainly filled in the blanks in the cruelest of ways. From my mind’s eye, I saw fingers pointing and wide stares heard shameful remarks and maniacal laughter. For all I knew, these people could have been discussing a riveting game or simply having talks about the weather, but my self-esteem was so nonexistent that I was so sure they must have been talking about me. I started panicking, I needed to escape. With the anxiety now distinguished across my face, I tried my damnedest to hold back the tears. I beckoned to my mom to leave everything she came for so we could go home. I walked as quickly as I could to get to the nearest taxi, one foot tripping over the other, hands tucked and my head held down avoiding eye contact with every passer-by. Once I got home I wept bitterly in my room, disgusted at the sight of me.

I tried not to feel defeated and attempted another method of loving myself. I got in front of a mirror and repeated the words “I am beautiful” religiously each morning, but this was very short-lived. I quickly realized that I was lying to myself. I never believed the words were true so what change could it possibly bring in effect? I hated myself and there was just no going around it. The attention I got from men, even though it was manipulative, gave me, I guess some approval. They were willing to sleep with me so I guess I wasn’t all that bad, worthy enough for a “booty call”. I guess that’s something right?

Though I was a loner with so many issues and presumed flaws, I still hoped for some connection. still wanted, sorry, needed someone to love me. I don’t think there is one human being on planet earth that can honestly say they don’t want at least one person to love them. Without love, what is the point of everything? For me, I did what I did to fulfill my low self-esteem, my need to feel like someone cared, but because no one did, I settled with men who pretended to give a damn. Those men denied me compassion and had little regard for my existence. They helped to destroy me but in all fairness and truth, I assisted in doing those things to myself, that blame doesn’t only belong to them but is rightfully mine as well. My only fear was possibly becoming pregnant for one of them knowing damn well they would never stay. The idea of having a child sounds magically wonderful to me but that possibility may never be actualized. Medically, my chances are very low and even if I do become pregnant, being able to carry that child full term is another story. In 2014 I was diagnosed with ….

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It was difficult to control my emotions; each day, overwhelming sadness cast a shadow of gloom over me. I pretended to be alright so that no one would detect any problems. Having to resort to secrecy, the storing away of pain and past hurts proved to be dangerous. I was in a place of torment. The thoughts of my being worthless and inadequate echoed consistently. I sat in my despair and pondered how I was never really successful in life. It was true that I had failed many milestones and matriculation. A simple exam taken in Kindergarten placed me at a school that was ”suited for me”. Doing poorly in the major exam in Primary School landed me at a less than satisfactory High School. Attaining less than average and barely passing grades for most of my high school years was nothing short of embarrassing. And at the end of my secondary education, I had sat yet another major exam in which I failed. I saw many students from my class whose parents were filled with pride as they boasted about their brilliant son or daughter. Knowing that my grades were unsatisfactory, I hurriedly made my way home with the envelope still sealed. It was my way of escaping public shame. After reviewing my results, my family gave me two options. Either repeat the last grade of high school or attend Community College. There was no way that I’d relive the shame of high school, so I opted for the latter. I attended a community college, did my courses, but again failed 😐 miserably😔. It seemed like everything I tried would not work.

I sought a different route and chose a career, did an interview, and surprisingly was accepted into a program. I thought to myself, wow, things are looking up for me. Oh, how wrong I was! By my first year into my tertiary education, I quickly realized I hated the career I chose but even worse, it was too late for me to quit. My parents, both hard-working, had spent too much money to get me this far, working two and three jobs. If I had quit my program I would have wasted my parents’ time, effort and hard-earned money. I had no choice but to complete what I regrettably had started. My life was in shambles, verbal abuse was never-ending, depression still a major factor and now I had to remain stagnant in a career I really wanted nothing to do with. To make a long tertiary education story short, I failed AGAIN😒. Why couldn’t anything go right? I was disappointed, confused and ashamed. I let everyone down again. Wanting so desperately to change my stroke of bad luck I swallowed my pride, attended after school classes and summer programs, studied as hard and as long as I could, prayed, well more like begged God, please let me be successful. I took the exam a second time and asked God to let me know ahead of time if I had passed. On April 6, 2014, I had a dream; I saw myself going with a friend to collect my results. On arrival, I was given a paper that I read, however, this paper indicated a failing grade. Alarmed, I looked at the name on the paper and noticed that it was not for me. Relieved, I went to another building and sat on the outside. A man went to fetch my results, but rather than returning with a paper he returned with a broad smile and a small cushion that had the word Congratulations sewn on the front of it. I thought it a bit comical but was ecstatic nonetheless. But after all the failures in my life, I wanted sound confirmation that I had indeed passed my final exam. The man then placed a laminated card in my hand. I was hopeful as I read the laminated card. I saw my name written quite nicely in black ink atop the small card. I smiled, finally, some good news. I now have my license to practice. Thank you Jesus!

This joy, however, like a sequel to a bad TV show series, was short-lived. I was jobless for almost a year. Though I had a Bachelor’s degree, the only job I could get was packing bags and boxes that paid barely enough to buy a good meal. Devastated and tired, I was fast approaching my wit’s end. I couldn’t choose death because of the promise I had made to God (If you haven’t, please read my first post). I was sinking with no help. I needed to find a way to rid the stress. I came across an article about a particular celebrity who experimented with self-harming. Reading her story sparked a strange curiosity in me. I wanted to find out more about it; which act to choose, how to do it etc. How bad could it be, right?

The Blade

Let me attempt to explain why I resorted to harming. I needed to add more pain to what I was feeling, simply because I believed I deserved it. I needed to hurt as badly as I was feeling. To those who have never experienced depression, the aforementioned sounds dumb as heck. Be grateful that your thought process is not as warped as mine was.

I took a blade from my place of employment, tucked it in my pocket and headed home; off to commit my dirty deed. On my first attempt, I didn’t even break the skin, I was too afraid. Why the hell didn’t anyone mention this shiz was so painful! I mustered up all my courage and tried again and almost cried. Punk! I exclaimed. I hid the blade in a container on my dresser but not long after, my depressed state arose and anger with it. I used all that anger and rage, the sadness, and focused that energy on making my 1st cut. But one cut led to another and then another and another. To see my first drop of blood felt like a major accomplishment. Yes, I drew blood. My focus was no longer the pain of each slit but the amount of blood that resulted from my cutting. I was hooked. As unfathomable as it may sound, I was happy, smiling from ear to ear as I looked at my arms, the marks that made me so proud and the blood that gave me some joy. Pseudo, but it was good enough for me.

Cuts had to be made on the inner aspects of my arm so that I was able to hide the scars when in public, especially at work. Wouldn’t say I was necessarily ashamed of them, just a bit apprehensive about reactions and comments I would’ve received. Like the ever popular “You must be crazy”. So I kept the cutting to myself. Over time the ‘joy’ of cutting faded and I needed a new outlet. I indulged myself in sexual relationships, not for personal gratification but simply because they (men) asked. Involved with five men, all seven to twenty-something years my senior. I ….

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