Daily Life

The Problem

My name is Ryena, and I have a gnawing problem that I can’t solve.

If you’re following me on Twitter or other social media means (Tumblr, for example, where I would occasionally post a post under the #tbd tag that would disappear about 10 minutes to 3 hours later), you know that I have a problem that I publicize under the tag of Content Warning. I don’t have to explain what Content Warning is, since you can easily highlight, right click that, and then go search on it on Google, because that’s not what I’m here today.

This problem developed during early childhood, even though at that time it was simpler, there was less chances of it developing to a scar and then getting found out by other people. By the time I was on 8th grade though, with more exposure and romanticization of it you could see in the Internet, the problem increased into a more alarming one. This is where the scars started.

My name is Ryena, and I have a self harm problem.

I’m not diagnosed with anything. I don’t have access to mental health care in a country where it’s frowned upon and laughed at; I don’t have access to actual counseling at school that doesn’t involve my parents in it, and that would be a bigger problem. I’m aware of the discourse about self-diagnosing and I aim not to touch it because it would became more of a headache. I do know one thing, though: I have a self-harm problem, a moderate-to-severate one, and I can’t stop it.

My previous post put a light upon my unexplainable rage, but only touch a little about my self-harm tendencies, so let me tell you why I called it severe: by the time I was sixteen (I’m eighteen now) I counted 47 scars on my thighs, and that’s not counting the ones that don’t leave a blackening scar and the ones on my arms, which disappeared over the years. That’s almost halfway to 100, and that was two years ago, while I still self-harm regularly over the years. Last year was one of the worse years of my life, where I do it every month, and my problems have decreased (though it still spurred regularly, like I did it this week) this year.

The reasons I do it would be trivial at times, but I can’t explain why I done it. Sometimes out of anger. Sometimes out of overwhelming emotions, sadness in example. And sometimes I did it because my mother didn’t want to sniff a tea I bought that I find to have a really great smell. You’d raise your eyebrow at that – scoff at how trivial it was – but to me it was such a big thing. In a house where things I like get shit at, my talents went unrecognized, and demeaned, it was a big thing.

I don’t exactly know why I’m writing this. I just needed to write.

My name is Ryena, and I have a self-harm problem. And I don’t know how to stop it.

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