I obsess over my own blood. Two years ago there was a wildfire near my home. At the same time as I was evacuated from my house I got rejected from a promotion I really needed.
Not only that, but the person they gave it to was significantly newer and less qualified.
I took it very personally, to say the least. I don’t actually remember when I started cutting. I just know that it started around that time. I was manning a road block.
Watching smoke billow, smelling the burnt trees. And the knife found its way to my leg.
I went to therapy. And I stopped, for several months. But then I started again. Always at work. Soon, I knew I had a problem. So I went to my boss, whom I trusted.
I took her my knife, and asked her to throw it away.
She was understanding, placed me on leave, encouraged me to seek counseling. I attended intensive outpatient treatment for six weeks. Then I did dialectical behavioral therapy for six months.
Then I had a relapse, at work, and they literally wrote me up for it. They said I violated the weapons policy by cutting myself with a knife. It hurts really bad.
I was in a bad place and they gave me a good swift kick in the pants while I was down. And here is what’s really crazy, I work for the state government. I am in a union.
And that is how they handled it. It’s just wrong. And I don’t know how to get over it.
Now I just got rejected for another job. I hate myself and feel that I am ever the loser. My cravings are intense, but I am trying to use the new skills that I have learned.
I envision taking the knife to my legs again. Carving scars and patterns. Watching the blood pour out and pool on the floor.
Yet I cannot, for these scars hurt more than just me. They hurt my wife, and could hurt my kids. So I mustn’t.
So I’m writing out the feelings. Trying to redirect my obsession. Venting my frustrations, and sharing it all with you.
Thanks for listening.