About two weeks ago I told my stepparents about my self injury. I told them how long it had been going on, and how I really wanted to stop. They completely didn’t get it. The first thing my stepdad asked was why I was angry enough to do something like that, but I don’t do it out of anger which I had to explain. They didn’t believe that I’ve been doing this to myself for years. They saw my most recent scars and didn’t bother to look at the older ones underneath. They said I was being overdramatic when this was clearly an isolated incident, and that I just wanted attention. They examined me with a patronizing sympathy and disgust, and told me I couldn’t go to school until I went to see a doctor and got put on medication. When they asked what I had used, I lied. I don’t know why I lied to them. I really want to stop, and the tools are just an unnecessary temptation but I can’t bring myself to part with them.
So I went to see a doctor. I sat in the waiting room scared out of my mind until a nice nurse called me back to get my vitals and wait for the doctor. He was happy and making jokes until he asked why I was here. I clammed up and made my stepmother tell him, because doctor’s offices and hospitals scare the crap out of me, because of what happened with my mom. After she told him, he got quiet and left quickly. He looked at me differently after she told him, and just remembering really bothers me. Then the doctor came in. She made me show her my arm, and asked my stepmother what she wanted her to do for me. My stepmother answered that she thought I should be on antidepressants. The doctor refused to prescribe the medication on the grounds that I “might swallow the whole bottle when no one’s looking.” With disgust and a hint of fear, she told my stepmother that she should take me to the nearest hospital and have me admitted to the psyche ward since I was obviously suicidal and a danger to myself. My stepmother argued with her for a bit and they started talking like I wasn’t even there, but the doctor refused to change her mind. I wanted to scream at both of them that I was in fact still in the room and I wasn’t suicidal or crazy thank you very much, but I stayed quiet and listened to the doctor tell my stepmom how crazy I was. She offered to give me a tetanus shot, but my stepmom said no thank you and we left and made an appointment with a child psychologist my stepmother trusts.
After the disasterous appointment with Dr. Witch, I worried that maybe the psychologist would think I was crazy too. I wondered if I really was crazy and disgusting. I hoped at least that the psychologist would be semi-attractive like the ones in movies. For some reason I thought that would make me feel better, but he wasn’t attractive. He was this completely average looking guy you wouldn’t look at twice on the street. Somehow that made me feel worse about lying to him, but I knew I had to do it if I wanted the ok on going back to school and not being checked into a psyche ward. I told him I was merely way stressed out about finals (oh noes), my dad’s upcoming heart surgery, and worry about a friend and it had only been a one time thing and it scared me. I mixed a bit of truth in with all my lies so he wouldn’t see through the BS I was feeding him, but played a well adjusted teenager who had a bit of trouble in a crisis quite well.
He told my stepmother I was ok to go back to school, but he wanted to see me again at least twice (my next visit is this monday). My stepmother decided to put me on these herbal antidepressants (she’s studied natural medicine) she described as a sort of herbal valium. They smell of old socks and taste like dirt, and I hardly take them when I can avoid it. So now I’m back in school, and nothing has changed at all. I haven’t injured since I told about it though not for lack of wanting to. I don’t know where I stand. I’m not sure if I can consider this recovering, since I lied to those who try to help me. I’m just existing day to day and seeing where I go from there.