“I DO NOT ENJOY CUTTING MYSELF EITHER”. I am not exaggerating; I have said this particular sentence almost a million times. Really! It’s worse because I repeat it to the same set of people; family members, colleagues, and most especially; my doctor.
It stopped being a secret when I was a teenager. Normally, I would lock myself up and almost drown myself in blood. My blood. Inflicted on me by me! But one day my dad walked in on me. I couldn’t decipher the look on his face; anger? Perhaps because it seemed I was flouting his simple instruction repeatedly.
Fear? Maybe he thought I lost so much blood and now I am almost dead.
Bitterness? Well, I should be the one bitter here.
Whatever it is, I could not bring myself to explain to him that what I was doing was not intentional. The doctor called it Impulse Control Disorder. Dermatillomania. That was the first big word that stuck without me trying.
When you have just been diagnosed with a condition that makes you impulsive to the point of losing control over what you do, many thoughts run through your peanut head. I knew I wasn’t a suicidal person. Personally, I don’t think anything would ever make me think about taking my life.
It’s just that I feel the strong urge to pull my hair out. As in, I feel like digging into my wrists with my very long fingernails is just what I need right now to have peace. I don’t believe the doctor feels my plight! “have you ever had a mental condition, doc?”, “Apart from what you read in your big medical books, do you know what I am going through?”.
He dismissed my questions with a sneer and proceeded to other waiting patients.
I will be back!