*TRIGGER WARNING: This blog post contains pictures of real self-harm wounds and scars. These images may be upsetting or triggering to some*
I had a great plan with this blog. A plan to tackle and fully lay bare the issue of self-harm.
And then, I choked. I couldn't find the time or the energy or the words. Then, mercifully, I started to separate myself from the experience of self-harm. So much so that I sometimes struggled to remember why I did it in the first place. How could a girl who could barely connect to who she used to be offer any wisdom on how to overcome the things she's not sure she even understands anymore?
Here's the thing: healing isn't always linear. It's a winding, twisting, joyful, crushing, roaring path. The truth is, while most days I can't connect to the need to self-harm, some days I still do. Those days, it becomes very clear that I do still have words to say.
But this isn't actually about words. It's about pictures.
Almost two years ago, my sister approached me to be a part of a photography project. She was photographing different aspects of suffering and asked if I would be willing to let her photograph my self harm wounds/scars*. Her timing was God-ordained as I had just recently had a major shift in my relationship with self-harm. At the time when she asked, I had self-harmed badly a week or so before. But that time was different. It was the beginning of the end for my addiction. I agreed to let her photograph me because I wanted my future to be different. And while it was hard and vulnerable and raw to let her see and take pictures of the ugliest parts of me, I wanted to be able to look back at who I was and be grateful and proud of who I am now.
While the journey hasn't been perfect, I can say I am grateful for the progression of healing. When I see that girl with the marks on her legs, I do understand her. But I know better now. I love myself better, and the compassion I can feel is borne from the deepest compassion that Christ bears for me.
*I want to be clear: I did NOT self-harm expressly for this photo shoot. While I want to let the art speak for itself, I do fear that someone could think that I hurt myself for the art which is not the case.
I did something hard today. Something I've been putting off for...at least a year. I scheduled a gynecology appointment.
I've been scared to pick up the phone and make that call for several reasons. One, I've never seen a gynecologist. I refused to go for a long time because I have a deluded sense of wellness and independence. I don't do doctors. Also, I reasoned, I'm not sexually active and never have been. So, I should be good, right?
However, I started to show some irregularity that concerned me a bit and I thought, "I should probably swallow my pride and do this."
Then, panic hit me. I realized very quickly that my aversion to going to the gynecologist had nothing to do with my pride anymore. It had to do with my two experiences of sexual mistreatment.
I use "mistreatment" today because it feels safe for me. "Assault" comes with a lot of baggage that is hard for me to sort out. I often feel, as a survivor, that because I wasn't raped, I don't deserve to feel panic over things like going to the gynecologist. I don't deserve to irrationally put off a normal medical exam. I don't deserve to shake and stutter as I finally talk to a receptionist at the OB/GYN office.
But the fact is I do. And you know what? Whether I deserve to feel that way or not doesn't change anything. Questioning my right to feel fear and shame doesn't help me to heal from those things. Questioning rarely closes wounds. Truthful validation does.
Another reason I'm sharing this story is to further show the consequences of sexual coercion. When the more recent and impacting incident happened, I felt absolutely powerless. I felt like I couldn't say no to the things that were happening to me. I felt like I couldn't breathe, or think, or move.
Today, as I dialed that number, I felt all those same feelings. Everything came back like a flash. All I could think was, "You bastard. I'm still paying for your stupid shit." I let fear of a past experience inform fear of a future experience. I let that fear keep me from seeking after my own health. If my mother hadn't asked me to call as a Mother's Day gift to her, who knows how long I would have waited.
I don't deserve that.
Still, I made the call. I have an appointment. Setting the phone down, I felt a huge sense of relief. I made one more step in quieting my fears. I took a little of the power back.
Maybe there are things for you that are triggers-things that you feel shame for the power they have over you. Maybe you have triggers that you'd never tell anyone because they seem stupid. But, my friend, your responses to things are real. Often times, you can't change them. Not right away. And that's okay. Maybe you're struggling with ongoing consequences of someone else's sin. You want to talk to someone about it, but you don't know if they'll understand or if they'll be willing to listen to your complex story of wrong and pain. I want you to know, I get that. Your feelings are real. Your suffering is real too, even if the outside world doesn't see it.
Jesus made us for power, for glory, for love, for peace, and healing, and goodness, and fellowship, and wholeness.
We deserve more.
