Life Blood
Only another self-injurer could understand what blood really means to me. It sounds weird, but so many aspects of self-injury do.
As a cutter, blood represented my salvation. If I could "bleed" out the "bad" parts of myself, then I might be in line for redemption. If if bled enough, I could show the world I was worthy of love, forgiveness or acceptance. My making this connection is something that was more than 30 years in the making.
Blood I let counted. Blood that was spilled accidentally didn't count.
I was in the hospital again this week and blood was the cause. Only this time I didn't cause it and that has made it very scary.
At first, it was thought I might have an ectopic pregnancy.
No.
Maybe a cyst ruptured.
No.
As a self-injurer, blood shed served a purpose.
But this week, it hasn't seem to have one.
As the hours pass, I have thought a lot about the real essence of who I am and how much of it is leaving my body.
I think of how much blood I have given away and little I fought to stop it.
And then I think of how much I am fighting now to keep the blood I have to avoid a transfusion or yet another surgery.
I am learning that life is perspective. When I injured myself, I believed I was the one in control. If I bled, it's because I willed it and made it happen. I controlled when it occurred and when it stopped.
But this sense of control was artificial. My body has shown me this week that it has a will larger than my own, and there it little I can do to control it.
Now I wait to see what this means. Yesterday I was met with the possibility of having a life inside of me. Today I am met with the reality that I don't.
I am working to fight through this and understand what all of this means.
Before, shedding blood meant life for me.
Now, keeping it does.
As a cutter, blood represented my salvation. If I could "bleed" out the "bad" parts of myself, then I might be in line for redemption. If if bled enough, I could show the world I was worthy of love, forgiveness or acceptance. My making this connection is something that was more than 30 years in the making.
Blood I let counted. Blood that was spilled accidentally didn't count.
I was in the hospital again this week and blood was the cause. Only this time I didn't cause it and that has made it very scary.
At first, it was thought I might have an ectopic pregnancy.
No.
Maybe a cyst ruptured.
No.
As a self-injurer, blood shed served a purpose.
But this week, it hasn't seem to have one.
As the hours pass, I have thought a lot about the real essence of who I am and how much of it is leaving my body.
I think of how much blood I have given away and little I fought to stop it.
And then I think of how much I am fighting now to keep the blood I have to avoid a transfusion or yet another surgery.
I am learning that life is perspective. When I injured myself, I believed I was the one in control. If I bled, it's because I willed it and made it happen. I controlled when it occurred and when it stopped.
But this sense of control was artificial. My body has shown me this week that it has a will larger than my own, and there it little I can do to control it.
Now I wait to see what this means. Yesterday I was met with the possibility of having a life inside of me. Today I am met with the reality that I don't.
I am working to fight through this and understand what all of this means.
Before, shedding blood meant life for me.
Now, keeping it does.