!!!Trigger warning!!!

This article involves talk of self-harm.

Heat. Hot. Burning up. I was spending my life in an oven built by me, for me to slowly slip inside and hideaway. Layer upon layer, tacked on in a skillfully executed manner. I had been honing this skill for years, shopping around for thick clothing items—sleeves were a requirement. These obsessive actions started at around 12, I had become that girl in black that everyone speculated to be a cutter. And they were correct in their thoughts—I had been finding new ways to harm myself every day. Items ranging from box cutters to metal notebook wiring.

There was constant anxiety about when I could next dig deeply into my skin. First, I had my ritualistic acts that had to be completed before I could envision myself surgically opening up the area of my choosing that day. Finding a quiet corner to hide away from the world, peacefully convincing myself that I could handle intense, emotional pain without pairing it with a beautiful dose of physical pain. Never fully believing I could withstand the seemingly insurmountable mental obstacles I had to tackle. Tears flowing like a lovely rainy day to obstruct my view of the damage I was subjecting my skin to. Dig after dig. Slice after slice. Most times I could snap out of this cycle quickly. Other times, I would fear I had gone too far. Warm guilt rushing over me forcing me to quickly clean up my mess and slide into a hoodie. Hoodies became my truest friend and protector, shielding me from the judgment filled eyes that I knew would come if others saw what lay beneath.

I wasn’t very good at hiding the fact that I was hiding something. It never occurred to me how suspicious it looked wearing a hoodie and jeans to do the mile run, or dressing for an Alaskan winter in the middle of an Alabama summer. I now understand how odd it may have seemed to the people who surrounded me daily; the people I had become comfortable lying to as often as needed—“I am anemic so I get extremely cold,” a saying that seemed to be my favorite go-to line when asked if I had a few bolts loose. I always seemed to be trapped in a Sahara-like heat that I knowingly inflicted on myself.

It is a lonely existence trying to hide from the world. Summer of 2011, was the last summer I spent r hiding and lying. Currently, I have not self-harmed for what will be five years on my niece's birthday. The day she was born I made a promise to never self-harm again; I wanted to be present emotionally for every single part of her life; to no longer hide myself away in my own personal sweat lodge. Each moment I spend playing at the park with my niece, being comfortable in my own skin, I understood, and continue to understand and what it really means to be free.