A distinct sign of a troubled teen may be self-harm. Whatever cuts, bruises, or wounds your teenager may ‘wear’ on his flesh are like symbols of his wounds on the inside. He is taking his hurt from within and placing it where all can see—on his flesh. His emotions and distress translate into physical harm.
See into the Mind of a Teenager suffering from Self-Harm
The following is one teen’s personal account of her bout with self-harm. This particular essay may let a parent see into the mind of a teenager suffering from self-harm.
Smiling
By: Claire E. Net
Sliding mirrors cover the wall in front of me. They make me sick. I can see my pitiful face staring back. She’s watching me. I can’t get away. Light and dark no longer exist. The room’s tainted with an eternal dim. “Get away from me!” goes the yelling in my head! But it’s no use, I’m stuck with her. I’m so sick. I’m sick of her. I want to crawl out of my skin, leaving it behind me like a shed cocoon, revealing the baby soft bare flesh of new. So clear and pure and beautiful. So fresh, compared to the stink of rotting flesh that does not embrace my body, but crawls upon me, wriggling like a blanket of flesh-toned maggots. I need new skin.
My eyes stare at my bare arms, lying limp at my sides. While my head feels like it could explode. Screaming. The shrieking in my mind won’t stop! I can’t rest. My face looks sticky and pimpled from late nights spent staring into the cold glass. It’s like a frozen sheet of ice before me, and staring through it I can only glimpse at a thin layer of myself. I hungered to peel back the layers of flesh to get in. My heart begins to race with the pounding in my head. I have to do something. I can feel myself breathing heavily now. Looking back into the ice, I see her. “GET AWAY!!!” Clamping my eyelids shut, I desperately hope she won’t be staring back when they open. But, no. Every single time, again and again, her sick face disgusts me.
I want to claw at my skin. Peel it off. Tare through it in a frenzied rush. Atomic bombs continue to explode in my head, missiles collide, and machine guns fire crazily. But oddly enough it’s silent inside my room. A cold silence. Ice cold. I can feel my heart freezing over, hard as rock.
My eyes stare down at my bare flesh, so clear, so clean, so smooth. It’s wrong. One must understand how wrong this is. The war in my head, wreaking havoc on my spirit, in my heart, and yet my body looks so bare, so clean, so pure! This isn’t how it feels. It hurts to breathe. It feels like I’m walking around with a knife gutted through my stomach, and no can see it but me. No one knows it’s there. TORTURE!
I’ve got a cutter ready now. I bought it to grant myself some solace. To match the inside with the outside. They don’t understand. They can’t feel the hurt. I’ll make them see it. I’ll help them understand. My spirit is wounded and bloodied. Let the body convey to the senses what the wounded heart cannot. Let it be my canvas of suffering. I hold the thin plastic cutter in my hands and my fingertips shake. I give myself one last look in the mirror. “I hate you.”
Slowly taking the thin silver tip to my left wrist, I press down. It stings as I continue to drag it across, forming a thin thread of blood. A tiny trickle of blood appears as drops begin to ooze from the gash. It was surprisingly easy. All these years of being taught how the body is sacred and how we must respect and cherish it and in seconds I realize—it’s just flesh! “MORE!” My wounded spirit would hardly stand for just a gash on the wrist.
I take the blade back, again and again. Suddenly fixated on the cuts, I drop the cutter and it breaks the silence with a clatter. I had passed my barrier, and now it seemed as if more would come. The panic was gone. It would be easier now, and I knew it. Oddly, the cuts let a sick relief flow through my once-frantic veins. I felt alive again. Seeing the blood reminded me of it. I was alive. My eyes look down on the ground at the plastic cutter for a moment. It seems to be staring back, simple and smiling.
|
