Infliction (The Romance of Self Harm)

Self harm is more recognized now than ever. It seems to me that it used to be a secret thing, but now it is almost glamorized on websites like Instagram and tumblr. I'm not saying that everybody glamorizes it, but as a whole it is simply a fact.

It is tagged as depression, as anxiety, as hell. I'm sure that the people posting pictures of their self inflicted wounds in black and white would not wish their suffering upon anybody. That does not mean that it is not still romanticized.

Here's how it works: One sees films, read books, and listen to songs about the hells of depression, anxiety, and self harm. When they begin harming themselves, it seems as if they are in that same situation and that same atmosphere surrounds them. There is nothing more romantic than seeing yourself in a film - like you are part of the story and you are simply watching a recreation of yourself - reading a book which projects your own story. Bringing these acts into the real world creates more dimensions to the film, the story. Suddenly more people are involved and contributing to the script.

At least, that is how it was for me when I slipped into a major depression for years.

I didn't begin injuring myself because of my mental state, however - It began when I was in grade seven and was sitting in a classroom with white lights, white walls, and echoes. I found out that I didn't quite feel pain like others seemed to, and it was more about a fascination with the and with the layers of my own anatomy. It was not until years later when I used self injury to cope with my depression and anxiety, and felt that romantic dissociation. I remember the everything as if it were laid out in a script, and as if I were merely watching it from deep within my mind.

I have scars, and they tell a story - a romantic story, which I may replay in my head whenever I please. A story involving tears, anger, hospitals, stitches, institutions, and fear.

Now that my hell is over (thanks to the right medication and a lot of hard work) I still scratch at my hands - my arms - my face. I bite my hands. It's back to the way it was before I even knew what depression or self harm was. It's back to being a morbid fascination, a stim. It now has more to do with Aspergers and sensory issues than with anything else.

I am free from the hell that I once fell into, but I will never truly be free from self inflicted injury.

Aspergers and my First Real Job.

I am writing this because a lot of people do not understand what Aspergers is. As you read this, I would like you to keep in mind that every person diagnosed with Aspergers is different. My problems may not be the same as those of others, and vice versa. 

The first real job I ever had was at Burger King. I prepared for the interview - mapping out how I was going to sit and act, and what I was going to say. I sat on my hands while the interviewer spoke to me so that I would’t flap or bite them, and I tried my best to make eye contact. Actually, I just looked at their forehead - and it was one of the most uncomfortable things. Whenever I try and make eye contact my entire body feels like colored wire - like dry beans going through a cardboard tube.

I got that job, without telling them that I had Aspergers, and started how everybody starts - cooking burgers and toasting buns. Toasting buns was amazing - repetitive, and I loved how they felt when they came out. Like melted foam - and when I touched them, my hands and up my arms felt like warm steam was going through my veins. After a while, though, it felt like my arms were turning into the texture of rubber and I began to dread touching them.

Cooking the meat was more difficult. There were too many things to do, I had to read charts (I’m terrible at reading certain charts) and there was a strict time limit. They would need a certain meat, by a certain time.

Not only that, but I could hardly concentrate on toasting the buns, let alone cooking the meat, because my mind is always fixated on one or two things. At that time, it was arthropods and Green Day - and I would not/could not focus on anything else. I mindlessly worked while focusing on the mathematics, facts, and complexities of my fixations while everything else blurred and my body simply moved. I still work like this - never really focusing my eyes on anything as I move about.

People would speak to me and I would not understand what they were trying to say. They seemed to be speaking in riddles, and I would need time to decipher them through intensive research when I got home.

And it was loud. I could hear everything all at once, one sound piling up on top of another until it was a tower of sound. The fluorescent lights, the beeping of all of the machines, the hum of the freezers, the speaking of the other humans in the building, the typing, the register, the phone, the boiling of the oil… I could go on.

Almost every day, after a certain amount of time, my brain would shut down. It would become harder to move - my functioning being pulled deep within my mind until I was simply a flesh-shell around my consciousness. I would lose my ability to focus my eyes, to speak. I would scratch and chew on my hands, and I remember standing in the back, smashing my head on the crates. All of my limbs would be green and orange wire. People would ask me what was wrong, and I would be unable to tell them. I was simply stand there, rocking back and forth, looking ahead, plugging my ears. Watching TV. Watching Ren and Stimpy in my head. And I would mutter the lines. I would do mathematics. What else am I to do when I am trapped within my mind?

Sometimes it was different. Sometimes on top of all this, I would somehow make my way over to a wall and sit because my entire body would tense. Rocking, shaking, trying to breath.

Being unable to function is one of the scariest things.

I ended up quitting because I was simply a burden - a problem - and they could not legally fire me. I had gotten them into this mess, and I was the one who released them from the responsibility. I have, since then, learned new coping skills and found a quieter and less hectic job where people accept me and where I do well.