I remember reading in an article in middle school about self-harm roughly around the time I started. This was in 2007, and cutting was just becoming more well-known and recognized (in my mind, anyway). In it, there was a statistics box that said on average, people who self-harm continue to self-harm or feel the urge to for five years. At twelve years old, I couldn't imagine what five years from then would be like. Seventeen felt like a lifetime away.
Here was me at twelve: utterly obsessive Fall Out Boy fangirl. Completely smitten with a guy who looked like Patrick Stump and didn't give a shit about me. I was just beginning to address my daddy issues. I spent pretty much every waking hour writing, whether is was FOB fanfiction or poems or random stories. I threw myself into music. Half my wardrobe was band t-shirts. I just learned about TWLOHA and bought some of their stuff. I loved black. I lost all my close friends in real life. I started my love affair with the internet. But the most important part? I started cutting.
I know I have a cutting post on here somewhere, probably close to my suicidal confession or in the latter part of 2010. But this one is different. This time of year marks "the end," so to speak, of my five years.
Hindsight is 20/20. The beginning of my cutting was slow, and within a year I was tearing apart my thighs on a daily basis. Thus began eighth grade, and I was with Graham. A long distance relationship was the last thing I needed, and I went maybe three months without cutting before it became all-consuming once again. Rather than a daily task, it became weekly or bi-weekly. It was something I looked forward to and found hope in when I shouldn't have. Then ninth grade; an utter hell. I kept up with the bi-weekly up until January of 2010, where my guilt overtook me and I was cutting more often than I care to admit. And then tenth grade: skipped cutting, headed straight for death by overdose (failed). But I didn't cut for awhile. Maybe six months. Despite the complete crap Graham was giving me, I was content with plotting my demise and didn't need a physical release of emotion cutting allowed me. Nothing for awhile in 2011, not until Graham and I were arguing about possibly meeting up at my UNC visit. A year after our break-up, I knew no one wanted to hear my complaints or listen to my rants, and I turned once again to the blade. Now? Senior year, and the last time I cut was in November of 2011, almost a year ago.
In all that time, I thought a lot. Thought about wanting to cut more, go further down my thigh. Thought about how ashamed I was of it. Thought about how incapable I felt of emotional expression. But one of my more recurring thoughts in the last five years has been of the one and only Renee Yohe.
For those of you who are unfamiliar, Renee is the reason To Write Love On Her Arms exists. She's the writer of book/journal/memoir "Purpose for the Pain" that I posted about in 2010 to get my mind on something inspirational and off of my shattered heart. And currently, she's Bearcat (music artist). Amazing voice, even better message.
Getting ahead of myself. Anyway, I thought about her fairly often. In addition to cutting, she was addicted to a number of substances and attempted suicide a few times. And, in line with the TWLOHA story they have posted on their website (twloha.org), she chose to get help. She's quite sober now, I think something like seven years, and I always admired that about her. It's one of the reasons I want the name "Renee" to be part of my first-born daughter's name: her strength, perseverance, and humbleness. Even though Renee had no idea who I was, she's very much a part of my story. This story. I'll be lucky if I turn out to be a tiny fraction of the woman she's become. Then I heard she was making music and going on tour in my area (and doing VIP stuff), and I knew I would go. Didn't know how, but I was.
The show and meet-and-greet was last night in Orlando. I spent the month before (once I bought the bundle) planning what I was going to say. How I was going to act. The kind of outfit I'd wear. And of course, the plans got shot to hell when I got this massive migraine and all I could think of was how BAD my head was throbbing and how hard I was fighting not throwing up. And the day before, news broke that Patrick Stump got married, so I was still getting texts from that. Basically, I didn't have a clear head, and I was rambling about it. Wasn't focused, except for when Renee sang those two songs in her mini acoustic set. And as we all know, rambling in combination with already socially awkward tendencies are bad. Especially when it's only you, one of your greatest inspirations, her guitarist, your boyfriend, and one other girl in the room. And you're making a fool of yourself but you can't stop it. I wanted to stay for the show more than anything, but I probably would've had a stroke or something, so TJ (bless his heart...and his patience) took me home.
I would do SO many things differently. I would've taken more medication throughout the day. I would've consumed more caffeine. I would've had more water. I would've eaten better. I would've gone into that venue and introduced myself as soon as I saw her (though in the real situation, I think I did a pretty decent job when I apologized for the million and one questions I'd been asking over Twitter). I would've smiled more. I would've put that damn migraine aside for fifteen minutes and used my brain to think of better questions to ask. I would've complimented her voice more, told her how beautiful and unique it was. I would've cut out every single reference to Fall Out Boy and Patrick Stump that I made or almost made or wanted to make and focused on her more than I was already. I would've told her outright how she's helped me in my story, or even just how inspirational she is. I would've asked how she felt about her story helping so many people. I would've asked about her tattoos. I would've fought to stay to watch her set at nine that night, even if that meant a nap in the parked car and more coffee on the ride home.
I thought meeting her, doing all of that yesterday, and writing this was the right way to celebrate a year, the longest I've ever gone (before it was nine months, I believe). To celebrate the end of the apparently crucial five years. But I know it's not that easy. There are some days I think about cutting, other days where I want to do it so badly but don't. I have friends who still do, and that makes it all the harder to resist. As much as I want to help them, I really can't help because I've been there. I can tell them not to, encourage them to share their feelings with me, talk things out, suggest other outlets, but I know that when you're caught in that urge cycle, nothing is the same. Compared to five years ago, there aren't any other coping mechanisms that I came up with or that a psychologist told me to use that I didn't know then. The only difference is my ability to feel, and that wasn't learned: that was brought out of me by someone I loved and trusted with my life (and though he's no longer in my life and he hurt me so deeply, I will always be indebted to him for what he did for me).
Best be off to bed. A month since my last post so here's some updates. I got into UCF (finishing up my Honors application), and I've switched to Early Decision for UofR. Senioritis is hitting hard now, and the first quarter isn't even over yet. Most importantly, I'm happy. And it may seem as though I'm trying to convince myself of that, I'm not. I just can't get over being happy yet, and I'm really excited about it. Loving life.
Love,
Caitlyn
