(trigger warning)

I was just beating my head against a wall.

Odds are, what just flashed through your head when you read that was not an actual cranium impacting on a physical wall, because “beating one’s head against a wall” is a metaphor used so often it’s become cliche. It means to try to do the impossible, usually giving yourself a (metaphorical, rarely literal) headache in the process. The American Heritage Dictionary of Idioms defines it as to “waste one’s time in a hopeless enterprise”.

That is not what I meant.

The dictionary goes on to say “The metaphoric phrase alludes to a physical expression of frustration.”

“A physical expression of frustration”?

That is also not what I meant.

“Frustration” does not begin to touch on what is going on in my brain and my body when I flex (or extend) the muscles of my neck to rapidly accelerate my cranium to a hard (preferably flat and smooth, because textured or abrasive can leave marks), unyielding surface.

I have retreated to the dispassionate language of pedantic description. Having hit my head against a wall allows me such a retreat. Admitting that I am the type of person to hit my head against a wall compels such a retreat.

“Frustration” does not begin to touch on what is going on in me when I feel the urge, but simultaneous relief and pain is what flashes through me on connection. The shame doesn’t come until after, but it pales in comparison to the calm — if it was enough.

Sometimes it’s not.

“Frustration” does not begin to touch on what is going on in me when I feel the urge, but it will have to do as a beginning anyway. Frustration, yes. Anger. Rage. Pain. Overwhelming pain, overwhelming rage, overwhelming overwhelmedness. Too much to fit in one body. Too much to contain. Too much to deal with in any other way. Too much nothing, too much everything, too much toomuchness.

I also hit walls with my fists.

I also hit my head with my fists.

I do not leave marks.

It’s sort of important for you to know that: to know that there is an eager, defensive, “I’m not that bad, I’m not like that, I don’t draw blood, it’s not really hurting me”, sad, pathetic little part of me that needs you to know that. The dispassionate, disapproving observer in me also thinks it’s important to be noted in this discussion, because it helps to understand the specimen under consideration (that would be me). My actions do not draw blood, do not leave marks, and it is important, if you are to understand, to know that, and it is important to know that I want you to know that.

Because it sets me apart, you see.

Because self-injury is cutting. Self-injury is damaging. Self-injury leaves marks, scars, and the compassionate me (who comes out only for others, you see) says they are not marks of shame, but of survival, but the shame whispers in my ear but that’s not me, you see, I don’t do that.

No brain escapes kyriarchy’s colonization. Corners of mine build it nice soft cushy dens, bring it drinks, make sure it’s happy and healthy and so well fed.

I do not leave marks, and I cling to that ephemeral distinction, while the evidence of its irrelevance rise around me like floodwaters, and I clutch it to my breast, and wonder why I’m not rising above, floating away, saved by this buoyant proclamation: “It’s not the same! I’m not like that! I’m not really sick!” I clutch it to me, tighter and tighter, as the waters rise, and are at my shoulders, my throat, my mouth, and I realize I’m holding only myself, and I’m about to become deadweight.

But it’s so hard to let go.

I can say this: I beat my head against the wall. (I write this while my head still throbs: for some reason, brains do not appreciate rapid deceleration inside the skull, and tend to register their complaint for a while afterward. This is my absolution and my punishment.)

I can say this: head banging is a form of self-injury.

I can say if A = B and B = C then A = C.

{The panicked defender notices this roundabout approach, and moves to deflect it. Some words are not to be said. Retreat!}

We’ll come back to that.

********

Self-injury, this form of self-injury, is used as a metaphor for frustration every day. It’s imbeded in the language (the American Heritage Dictionary of Idioms dates it to the “Late 1500s”). It’s ubiquitous on the ‘net, in the modern, sedentary, abbreviated form of *headdesk*.

It’s a little odd to see a form of self-injury I struggle with {closer and closer! perhaps we’ll get there yet} used as a flippant expression of irritation.

I’ve used it myself. It’s a handy little metaphor, so concise, so graphic, so giggle-inducing.

When I say “it’s a little odd to see a form of self-injury I struggle with used as a flippant expression of irritation”, I also mean it’s fucking infuriating.

It’s a little odd in the way that seeing a cobra in your living room is a little odd. It’s a little odd in the way standing on the edge of a very high, very steep cliff with no railing or protections is a little odd — will I slip? will I fall? will I jump? It’s a little odd like that adrenaline rush, that “what will happen next?”, that feeling of free-fall — that moment after my muscles tense and before my head impacts the surface — is a little odd.

My pain. My shame. My savior. My coping mechanism. My “target behavior” (targeted for elimination, and isn’t that an assassinatory image). My life, bandied about, used as a metaphor, used for humor, used to express “frustration”, used when a douche is (unsurprisingly) being a douche, used for emphasis in a comic tale of pseudo-woe where no one is really hurt, no one is really hurting, no lives are on the line, no brains are at risk of damage.

It’s a little odd.

I don’t want to be the one to take the humor away. I don’t want to be the one to proclaim it verboten. I don’t want to be the one to be the killjoy.

I kill enough of my own joy. I want joy. I need joy.

And yet… it’s a little odd.

********

I self-injure.

Oh. There it was. An impact much in the building, sudden in the delivery.

Pain, yes, but relief. Shock, and shock that it wasn’t so bad.

But this is not a headache of shame and regret — no, wait, there’s the shame.

Let’s try it again.

I self-injure.

Hm, that time wasn’t, if you’ll pardon the pun, so hard.

I self-injure.

Apparently, it gets easier with practice.

I self-injure. I self-injure. I cause myself pain to cope with my pain, and that is the very definition of self-injury. I self-injure.

Huh. It doesn’t sound so bad anymore. Less a shame, more a symptom. Less to be hidden, stuffed down, shoved out of sight; more to be acknowledged, and discussed, and held — not clutched — in love, and with radical acceptance, knowing that I am loved just the way I am, and loved enough to not be left this way.

My name is Arwyn. And I self-injure.