They say absence makes the heart grow stronger.

This is true.

Not just for people, but for things and activities; anything that we are absent from makes it sit at the forefront of our minds for every waking minute.

I have this today at sixteen days; sixteen days of abstaining from self-harm.

I made a deal with myself that I would make it to the 1st October. Sort of a deal with my own pain. The 1st October will mark two years since the loss of my daughter. So it was an unspoken promise to her, in a way. I guess it was something that I could aim for and focus on.

As the days go on, I’ve found myself feeling a different way. There was even a couple of days that I could look at myself in the mirror and know who I was. I wrote a little too.

But each day that thing; the self-harm, becomes louder in my mind. It’s screaming and holding my chest and I can’t breathe because I want it so bad. It sneaks through my body to my mind and today, I have asked myself, why I am abstaining?

I can’t think of a reason. Perhaps, because people say it’s wrong or because health professionals and society say it shouldn’t be done.

What is wrong in it?

It’s only like taking medicine and easing pain; a pain that real medicine can’t reach.

I’m not hurting anyone.

I’m just cutting something open and letting the pain come out.

Why is that bad?


Telling Teddy

Coming Soon

It’s been a few days since I last self-harmed.

That’s not bad for me right now. It had been an almost daily thing that I couldn’t fight and I found that I wasn’t writing. Not really.

I got myself into a schedule and set about the re-writes for Dear Teddy 2. Once I got into it, the self-harm stopped. So far.  In a way, maybe writing helps me dig out what I am trying to reach with knives.

I still don’t have a voice except when I am writing. Perhaps that is the only voice I have right now. It seems an effort to talk. Of course, I have managed to talk to people but I have had to make myself. In these last few days, it has been harder. Today, aside from one person, I have not talked at all.

I put that down partly to a bad night; partly to myself. Perhaps, finishing my book has made me silent today. I have no words. Fifty-two thousand words; two drafts. It has been through edits and proof reading and now to be beta read.

Dear Teddy 2 is done;  to be called Telling Teddy.

I feel the loss of not writing it. That is normal from any writing, I know, but the empty hole I try to fill feels bigger today.

Writing Tell Teddy has certainly been an interesting journey. I think, in ways, I am somewhat numb to it. Aside front the odd chapter the last one, on its own, took more to write than the entire book.

A friend of mine reads it as I go along. Her reactions to what she has read differ. Sometimes, I wonder why she can’t see things my way or why things she read are so black and white. It is because I forget she is looking in through the eyes of a boy. She is not the boy.

She read a chapter a few days ago; one where an official questioned me and then clearly walked away. She said that I got failed a lot and she was sorry for that. I think maybe this is a part that gets misunderstood.

I am glad that I got failed. I’m not sorry they did. To those reading, I could have been saved from a pair of monsters. To me, I would have been taken from my mum and dad; the only family I had.

And while I wished they didn’t do the things they did, they were ‘my’ mum and dad.



Note: I wrote this some weeks ago when I was at a point I didn’t see a way out of, I needed an outlet. I thought I would share. Could be triggering to those suffering self harm issues and possibly disassociation. Read with care.

When I look in the mirror I am shocked. That is not my face. That is not how I look. I want to claw his face away. It’s a lie. I am trapped in his body. I don’t look like that. 

I see what everyone sees. I see why they hurt him;   right there in his eyes. It is what he was made for and what he deserves. I hate when I see the tears in his eyes. He looks stupid when he cries. He doesn’t deserve to let the tears go.

You cannot cry for what you are. It’s his fault; he has no right to cry. He is bad. He is worthless. He doesn’t get to cry about that. 

I see his blood in the mirror but it isn’t right. I need to see it for real so that I can feel it. I can’t feel it in a reflection that is a lie. I need to see it happening. I need to feel it; the sharp burn as the skin gets cut.

I grind my teeth down because it hurts, but then I see him doing the same. He doesn’t get to keep the pain away. He isn’t allowed to.

It is his entire fault. I want to smash the mirror. I want to pull him out and beat him. I want him to go away and never come back. I want him to die.

I hate him.

He eats and he isn’t allowed. He doesn’t deserve food. He doesn’t deserve to taste things, but I watch him and he does it like he can’t help himself. He has no control. He should eat nothing. He should feel hunger. He should feel everything. 

He is a lie and everyone sees through it. Everyone knows that he is there to be hurt. But it’s not him that gets hurt, it’s me.

They get it wrong. 

I keep drifting off. Not to sleep; just somewhere. I get lost. Maybe he does it. Just like now. I don’t know where I have gone. I don’t really know. My mind keeps wandering. 

I like to watch the skin bleed. I like to watch when it burns from the kettle or the iron. I feel it when it goes over me like calming music. Every nerve reaches to feel it, but then he is there. He spoils it. 

Everything I do, he spoils. I get happy; I get content and think maybe this time things are right. They feel right, but then it’s him and he ruins everything.

I hate him.

Because of him, it all goes. Something happens and it is supposed to be him that gets hurt. Not me, but it’s me that feels it. Me that hurts.

I see the walls fall on the comfortable place I made. They crash down so loud I can’t hear anything else. It’s always this way. It happens every time. I’m a fool to believe that it is different. Foolish to believe in people. Foolish to believe that maybe this time he won’t ruin it. 

Each time is worse. I curl up inside and wish to be taken away. I just want it over. I ask all the time; just take me away. Make it stop. But I am never answered. I know there is no one listening.

 I can’t cut deep enough. I keep trying and it doesn’t go away. It just bleeds. I don’t want it to bleed. I just want to feel that pain and not this one.

He can’t even give me that. 

I want to smash his face in the mirror. 

Crying Without Tears – Self Harm.

Crying Without Tears

Self Harm

Five days and I have not self harmed. I am trying not to break it today. I am trying to hold on with everything I have got to not give into what’s inside.

I’ve come so close, my hands shake, I can’t move, but I try. I fight.

For me.

I’ve self harmed since I was 4 years old. It’s what I do. What I know that cuts away my shame. That’s 31 years of being a slave to this condition, but it calls to me. Deep within. The tug inside. The ache under my skin that needs to be let out. The way I feel it. It’s like a need to breathe. A way to cry with no tears. To appear normal. To move onto the next moment because this one feels so smoothing I need to cut free.

I will not cut today. I will not give in.


Self harm is an addiction. It is passed off by society as something odd looking teenagers do while listening to depressing music to get attention. That is not why I do it. It is not why many do it, I am sure.

It’s misunderstood.

Sometimes, all that is needed is a hug. A tight hug until the only option is to break and let it out.

I read in the paper a short time ago that when a patient comes in with self harm injuries to the emergency room, the nurses would not give the patient anything to numb the pain. Because it was self inflicted,   the patient can deal with their pain then. They can deal with it while getting stitched up and wasting time.

I am sure it’s not practice but it was still a debate. The cause of self harm is passed off as nothing more than looking for attention. Perhaps it was a new idea to save money.

People think it can be stopped. Just don’t do it, but it is not so easy.

Three weeks ago, I had to seek medical aid for something I had done to myself. I was thankful that the nurse numbed the area before she began to stitch.

I am not proud of what I did. I don’t show it off. Most of the time when I am not feeling such mental anguish, I feel quite ashamed of what I have done But while I am  in those moments, self harm is the best painkiller I have for the internal pain I feel. All I care for is relief.