The other day, I was talking to my mother about a movie she’d watched (forgive me, I don’t know which one, she never said) about a teen boy who killed himself because they’d given him Lithium for his bipolar. I found this a little odd since one of my doctors had actually called Lithium the “anti-suicide” drug and suggested that to her. I’d also made mention that I really wished that the doctor I’d had when I was 18 had just put me on Lithium in the first place (instead of running me through hell with various anti-depressants that just made my swings worse) and my father suddenly yells to us from the other room “You were never suicidal. Grumpy as hell, but not suicidal.”

9 years since I was first diagnosed with this damned illness and my father still has no idea what I’ve been through. I was half tempted to pull up my skirt and show him the roadwork of scars across my legs. Or to give him some sort of lecture on the difference between feeling suicidal and actually acting out on it.

I’ve wanted to die for most of the past 15 years. I’ve only actually taken that extra step to try and destroy myself a handful of times. Twice, in this last year.

But since we’ve gotten my Lithium to a level that seems to stabilize me, I’ve definitely noticed that my self-harm has gone from a near-daily habit to one or twice a month. I’m hoping it’ll eventually stop completely. My suicidal urges have also decreased significantly. I would like to take a moment right now to point out that the two, though sometimes overlapped, are not directly related. For me, self injury comes from a place of anger and hatred. I’m trying to destroy something inside so I can be free. Sometimes, I think of it as cutting myself open to let the demons out. Suicidal urges tend to come from a quieter place in me, a sad, hurt, broken place. A place that is desperate for relief and rest. Self harm is, ironically, born from a strong urge to live.

You did read the part where I said I was mad, right? It’s called a mental illness because you’re sick. Your brain is malfunctioning and the messages getting to you are messed up but you think they’re right because you have no frame of reference to compare it to or else lack the tools to do the comparing with. Yes, I sometimes honestly believe there are demons in my skin. Yes, I sometimes honestly believe the only way to get them out and save myself is to cut my skin open. No, I would not advise this practice to anyone. Yes, I always hate myself after I do it, once I come back to my proper sensibilities.

I hide my scars because they embarrass me. I don’t want the questions. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want attention. For a little while, a friend of mine made me promise to tell her whenever I cut myself. But she apparently couldn’t handle it. Now I don’t tell anyone.

When you fall outside of the social norm for one reason or another, you find yourself on a very lonely road. It’s not until someone tries to walk with you that you discover that it’s really more of a tightrope, and that trying to help you just puts them at risk.