Transmogrifying into a moggy is the best trick there is. I'm so glad you get to keep all your organs and didn't literally break your heart.
Music can help manage your whacked-out brain but have that playlist ready before the inevitable happens.
I have worked from home for years and I’m easily overwhelmed by too much social interaction. But it turns out that even a minimal social calendar of meeting up with friends, whether to talk, dance, listen to music, or study, anchors my mind and energises it.
Changes in routine, whether a slowdown or an uptick, can play havoc with memory — including the memory of that moment when I silenced the meds reminder alarm.
After I had my morning coffee, I felt so focused. More so than I had in days. …
Research shows self-injury is usually a private and secret act. It is not a clear indicator of any particular disorder or mental illness, although it can be linked to a number of them.
I am conscious as I write this that depictions of self-injury can trigger some people. If you think you may be triggered or distressed by a written depiction, stop reading now. Talk to someone you trust. See your doctor. Do not accept facile “one size fits all” explanations. Do not believe people who say that you are doing it only to get attention. Do not accept quick judgments or a sloppy, outdated or unprofessional diagnosis.
Everyone’s Story is Different
I can only write my own story and hope that it might help others. I have recorded my search for my first act of self-injury…
Self-injury affects people of all ages, genders, ethnicities and social classes. This is just one woman’s story. If you find my story triggering, please talk to someone you trust.
I last hit myself two weeks ago.
During a tiff with my partner about dinner (or dinner’s absence) I rained blows on my thighs and then my head. He tried to hold me, saying, ‘No, no, no, no. Please don’t do this.’ But I fought him off and smashed my head against the wall until the hallway clock fell down.
The painted timber walls in our house have stood for over a century. It’s possible they’ve seen worse. But right here, right now, I need to stop this.
I’ve been trying to quit for nearly a year; or in truth…
At fourteen I wanted to run away to another country and change my name, so my mother would never find me. I also wanted to die. Living with a mother who terrifies you will do this to adolescent dreams.
Decades later, dying will probably take care of itself and I’m living in my third country. My fourteen-year-old self would probably thank me for that, if she wasn’t so pissed off that I haven’t changed my name.
By the time I reached my twenties, taking another name, even to write with, felt like weakness.
I wanted to be authentic and unafraid…
Lina Neild Robinson
I live with possums, pythons, geckos, frogs, spiders, my elderly cat, and Complex PTSD. Words are my passion. linaneild@gmail.com
