Although I enjoy visiting my mother, I don't enjoy going to her house. Her house is filled with things from my past, painful things, and being there is a stark reminder of how my life used to be.

The furniture of my childhood is still there. The same dishes. The same smell in the closets.

My bed.

The same one I used to lie on and cry myself to sleep after being told by my father how worthless I was and what a disappointment I was...again.

The same one I used to bang my head against each night until I passed out.

The same one I used to crawl into after hours of sit-ups and push-ups as I sought to sculpt a body that I envisioned as being "perfect".

The same one I curled up on after I'd injured, again, and swore to myself that THIS would be the last time.

The same one my ex-husband and I used to sleep on when we'd visit, facing each other and whispering quietly in the darkness.

Such a beautiful bed.

But what sorrows it has seen.

It had been three years since I'd slept on that bed before this weekend.

The last time I was there, I'd injured and I can remember craddling my arm and crying out of fear, desperation and regret.

But this weekend was the first time in my life that I'd laid on that bed a whole person. I hadn't been sent to my room as a punishment. I hadn't been yelled at or told I was a failure. I wasn't in the throes of an eating disorder and I hadn't injured.

For the first time ever, my bed wasn't an escape.

It was a bed.

It's hard not to feel the power of such a history.

Poe called it sentience. He believed that inanimate objects could absorb the feelings of those around it.

I believe in that.

If a terrible crime is committed in a place, that place is forever tainted because of the horrors it was exposed to.

My bed too is tainted.

But I hope that by finally being able to lie on it as a "clean" person, I helped to redeem it a little bit.

I had avoided returning to my mother's house for years.

I insisted I would never go back...couldn't go back...couldn't walk into the lion's den and face the past that lived there.

But ultimately my mother's present happiness was stronger than my past sorrow, so I went.

In a way this was a victory.

When I think of how many things have happened in and around my bed (I've had it since I was 9), it's hard not to want to just throw it out and start all over again with something new and unscared.

But I cannot deny the past.

I must embrace it.

tags: confronting the past, cutting, emotional abuse, growth, healing, scars, self-injury

I sold my wedding rings today.

It's been more than three years since my divorce so it was time.

But I'm sad anyway.

When I was married and things got really tense, my ex and I used to joke about our rings being sent to "Mount Doom from "The Hobbit". We shared a vision of throwing the rings into a well of fire and letting them forever blend together.

Like our hearts.

Neither of us realized that our long-standing joke would become today's reality.

When I got divorced, I had the rings cleaned and put into a vault.

Until today, I hadn't ever had mine on my finger again.

But before I handed it over, I put it on and stared at my hand, wondering why such a beautiful ring no longer belonged there and knowing 150% that the man that had originally put it there, was no longer mine to mourn.

Today a piece of heart healed a little.

There is never a chance of reconciliation and without the rings, no chance of ever "going back" to the way things were.

But I'm sad anyway.

When I got married, it was forever.

Or so I thought.

Selling my rings today is my taking full ownership of the biggest failure of my life.

Sixteen years is a long time to be with someone.

Three years is an even longer time to be without them.

Tonight, I envision our rings melting together to create something more beautiful than we were able to create as a couple.

I hope that whatever our failed love creates in the fire is strong enough to bind someone else's heart with another, forever.

tags: emotional health, failed relationships, healing, moving on, past, regrets

I read a beautiful sentence this week in a book. It was talking about memories and how time is more destructive to memories than a house fire because until a fire that destroys the memories in an instant, time allows part of the memory to remain and other parts to slowly fade into darkness.

I know what this means.

For almost twenty years I have had boxes in storage. This weekend, I emptied the storage unit and so now my garage is piled with boxes of memories and "things I couldn't live without", waiting for me to explore them once again.

I know when I packed these boxes my life was headed in a new and exciting direction: I was moving out of the house, into the dorms in college, and knew I couldn't take everything with me.

I vowed, once I graduated, to "go through" the boxes and throw out what I didn't need.

The problem?

Two hours after graduation from college I was headed south, with my husband-to-be and couldn't be bothered with the boxes.

So, "my treasures" found themselves in another storage unit, sealed tight until the day I could go through them.

And now, almost twenty years later, the time to do just that has finally come.

Old yearbooks.

Greeting cards from loved ones now gone from this life.

Boxes and boxes of photographs, capturing every smile, every "first date" and every beautiful flower or mountain lake I have been able to capture through my camera lens.

What has taken me years to accumulate and drag around will surely take me weeks to pare down.

I'm not sure where the time has gone.

I look at the boxes and the edges of things peeking through them and remember where I was in my life when they were put together.

How many things, and people, have come...and gone.

I must pace myself.

There are things in these boxes that are old triggers laying in wait.

But I am stronger now.

Ready to face them fearlessly, saving them or destroying them forever.

But I will remain.

There have been many times in my life when I wasn't sure this would be the case, but today, facing towers of boxes with my name on them, I know I am ready.

I don't know where the time went, but I know where I have gone.

It's true that time is a terrible killer of memories.

But maybe that's why I could never bring myself to get rid of these boxes or parts of my life they contain.

I knew one day I would need to remember where I was, who I was with and what I was doing.

For every lost memory, I have created dozens of new ones.

How fun it will be to re-visit some of these parts of my past.

And how powerful it will be for me to finally, once and for all, get rid of those things that tether me to things better left forgotten.

tags: coping mechanism, emotional health, healing, memories, time, triggers

I had a weird experience today. I was looking on a hospital website for volunteer opportunities over the summer. I noticed the "babies" page and there are names and pictures of babies born each day. I scrolled down and clicked on a baby name I liked...one I might have chosen had I been a mother.

The picture of the baby popped up and the parents names were listed. The mother's name was Vanessa and the father's name was that of my ex-husband.

This could have been my baby...a different time, a different place.

I've thought a lot about "the road not taken" lately. I'll be turning a year older soon and I can't help but wonder what if.

I have always known I didn't want kids because I thought for sure I'd manage to screw them up in some way...pass the poison that runs through my family tree on to them and I never wanted that.

But as the window of opportunity nears closing forever, I find myself wondering what kind of mother I would be.

This picture today intrigued me.

Here are two people with names I recognize, have fond memories associated with and together they created a life.

I too could have created a life, decided not to and now I'm starting to wonder.

Is it wrong to think that just because I came from an abusive background that somehow I might make a mess of things?

Is it possible to be successful in a career and be a good mother?

What if I projected all of my insecurities and perfectionism on a to perfect and unmarred life?

But what if I were a wonderful mother?

I have so much love to give and so many exciting things to show a child. I love to learn and have spent my whole life helping others to learn as well.

In some ways I think I would be a great mother.

In others, I'm not convinced.

I thought I had this all settled, but the questions linger. The picture today and the names on the screen, together, helped me to see that somewhere, a life was created out of a union I never thought was fertile.

This is ridiculous, I tell myself. I'm not the Vanessa and the man isn't XX, so the kid on the computer isn't mine.

But it could be.

A different time. A different place.

I'm a different person now. I have moved beyond some of the insecurities that held me back in the past.

But what does that mean exactly?

Who am I called to be?

I think I'm still figuring that out.

tags: birth, faith, healing, hope, marriage, new beginnings, recovery

I have a Garmin GPS that I use almost every day. When I bought it, it was for the purpose of helping me find my way during long trips, but once I had it in the car, I found myself using it to find everything from new movie theatres to doctor's offices. No matter how off track I get, this little talking machine can help me find my way back. And if I get too lost? There's a big button on the screen that says, "Go Home".

I wish life came with a GPS. More often than not I feel like I am off course, scrambling to find my way through a maze of road blocks, mixed signals and traffic jams. I seem to handle these things better when I have a reassurance that I am never too far gone to find my way back.

As a self-injurer, I felt too far gone. I never imagined a time when I could go "home again" and feel like a complete person. The pieces were there, but I wasn't sure how to put them all back together again. And if I did, I feared that, like the elusive puzzle piece, one part of my essence might be missing.

But through therapy I learned that I was a whole person. I had lost touch with parts of myself, but these parts were still there, waiting for me. The mind has an incredible ability to compartmentalize, and that's what I'd done: taken my life and separated it into "manageable pieces". But in dealing with so many pieces, I lost sight of the bigger picture, me.

As I explored issues of my past and concerns about my future, I re-discovered these misplaced parts. Some, like my emotional vocabulary, were dusty and atrophied from lack of use. Like a child learning to walk, I had to re-learn how to use this part of myself again. By developing an oral means of expressing myself and finding healthy ways to use it, I gradually reduced my dependency on self-injury. This was a process that took many months. I went from cutting multiple times a day to once a day, and then once every two days and then once a week or once every few days, etc. In the beginning, my self-injury intensified. I was afraid of losing it and when I injured, it was more intense. I thought if I hurt more I would feel better, less afraid of the journey I was taking, but this wasn't true.

I wrote last time about the lies we tell ourselves. There are many more and I will write about that again. But once you recognize the lies and agree that they are indeed lies and a way of justifying what you do, where do you go from there? How to start to create a new truth within you when the only "truth" you've known is one you've fabricated for yourself?

As with most messages about our self, they come from others in our lives. I wasn't born with low self-esteem or with a desire to cut instead of feel my feelings. Instead, these were messages imprinted on me as a child. I internalized what I was surrounded by and that fostered within me a sense of inadequacy and shame.

As an adult, I knew these early messages weren't right, but I had nothing to replace them with. Sure, I had positive people in my life, but I was convinced that they didn't know the real me and if they did, eventually they would reach the same conclusion: that I was hopeless and worthless.

In therapy, I worked a lot on the concept of internalized messages. My next step was going to be choosing people in my life who said and did the right kinds of things that validated the good parts of who I was. These had to be people I respected, whose opinions mattered in my life. They had to be chosen carefully and with purpose.

In retrospect, I think we do have a GPS in our lives and that's our heart. We know when we are on the right track because our spirit is light and exuberant. We feel good about where we are, what we're doing, who we're with and how we feel on the inside. There are no messages of doubt, shame or insecurity flowing from within. Certain people bring out this side of our personality. These are the kinds of people we should be attracted to and want to spend more time with. These people fill our emotional cup so to speak.

This makes me think of a poem that one of my teachers gave me in middle school called "Slugs". I have kept it all these years and continue to share it with my students today. The poem talks about negative people, people who use you and make you feel bad about yourself. These people are called "slugs". They slither into your life and leave a slime trail wherever they go.

As a self-injurer, I attracted a lot of slugs. Even though I tried to hide it, I think I sent out subconscious messages about my low self-esteem through my body language or self-depreciating comments. Some people feed on that and encourage it however they can. Why? Because misery loves company, and the worse you feel about yourself, the better others can feel about themselves.

As you start or continue your journey of healing, consider the people you have in your life. Are they a postive GPS signal towards emotional and physical health, or are they slugs, sliming up your life and down-playing what you're trying to accomplish?

You know when you're on the right track. The hard part of staying there, that's why you have friends that you trust to keep you accountable.

Where do we go from here? Straight ahead with confidence. Is the future scary? You bet. But there is where the good things are. Leave the past in the past. Leave all the tears, the regret, the pain and suffering there. It can't hurt you if you don't bring it with you. Healing begins when we can close the door on some of the old wounds and get rid of people in our life who like to see them kept open.

Happiness is the big button that says, "Go Home".

Press it and let your heart guide you to a safe place.

tags: cutting, healing, recovery, self-injury, therapy, treatment

I am deeply troubled by a news story today that indicated that thousands of pet owners around the country, unable to afford their animals any more, are choosing to abandon them, leaving them to starve and die. As the economy continues to weaken, experts at the SPCA and Humane Societies are seeing an upsurgence in the number of sick animals being put up for adoption because the owners cannot afford immunizations, medications or treatment for them.

I am a huge animal advocate. I believe that when a person adopts a pet, it is very much akin to adopting a child. You are, in good faith, vowing to care and nurture that animal for the length of its natural life. If you cannot, then it is your responsibility to find someone who can. Period. Leaving an animal to fend for itself, especially when it has known no other life than the one afforded it by its owners, is murder.

If you go on-line, there are listings for pet adoption or foster families all over the country. It takes some time, but finding a suitable replacement for you, the owner, is a responsibility that must be taken seriously. For myself, many years ago I had to adopt out Brianna, female Yorkie who was (unbeknownst to me when I purchased her) a puppy mill puppy. She was highly aggressive and barked every minute she was awake and not eating. (Living in an apartment complex, we were not a hit with the neighbors!)I had her for two years before my husband and I decided to get her a little brother to keep her company. She was very aggressive towards him as well and after a year or so, the vet was concerned that our boy dogs mental and physical development was being stunted. He recommended we find a family for her that had a farm or other female Yorkies that she could bond with. It took me several days to find a family in my area who fit that description. Brianna was adopted by a family who lived on an acerage with five other female Yorkies.

Giving Brianna up for adoption was one of the hardest things I've ever done, but it was the right thing, and her life was happier because of it.

Throwing a dog/cat out of the car window or locking them in a house that's being abandoned is a crime.

My relationships with people seem to go through phases...some times we're great and other times we're not. But my relationships with my pets are ever constant. Their love for me is unconditional. When no one else understands me or wants to be around me, they do. If I am sick and feeling alone, they are right there beside me on the bed offering their big brown eyes in support.

I wanted to cry when I saw the animals in the shelter cages on television tonight. When they were taken in by their families, they must have thought that theirs would be a charmed life. But now, as money gets tight, they find themselves fighting for their lives.

If anyone reading this is considering getting a new pet, I urge you to visit your local shelter or SPCA. There are SO many animals who have been trained, fixed, been taught tricks or to interact well with children who will be killed if they are not adopted. It isn't their fault that their owners lost their job or their house or can longer afford to provide for them.

There is unconditional love waiting for you in the form of a furry, little body.

tags: animal adoption, healing, pet therapy, unconditional love

It fascinates me how individuals in recovery deal with their eating disorder issues. This week, I was sent a link to something incredible: jewelry made out of spoons. http://www.spoonfedart.com/history1/history1.html

I am in awe of individuals who can create art out of ordinary objects and that is why I am sharing this with you. The woman behind the project started the company in 2004 as a way of dealing with her eating disorder. What a beautiful way to celebrate a utensil she spent so many years of her life "fighting" with!

I believe in life there are teachable moments. This may be when a stranger sees my scars and asks me about them. Sharing the truth behind them and exposing them to the concept of self-injury is a teachable moment. Wearing a beautiful piece of jewelry and then having someone compliment you on it is a teachable moment. Imagine being able to tell someone about your recovery from an eating disorder. That's a teachable moment!

Eating disorders are so complicated and filled with ritualistic behavior. Imagine being able to take part of that past and advertise your healing to the world in a beautiful and eye-catching way.

tags: anorexia, eating disorders, food, healing, jewelry, recovery, spoon

Photographs were an integral part of my recovery journey. In the hopes of helping me to identify the circumstances around some of my first self-injury episodes, I was tasked with pouring over hundreds of photographs that my mother, myself or other family members had taken over the course of 36 years.

These images are a living testament to the struggles I have gone through and overcome.

They are also a record of the deep-seated emotional pain that I've carried with me for as long as I can remember.

If you were to look at many of these early photographs, you would see a vivacious, bright-eyed curly haired girl "mugging" for the camera. These smiles belie a larger truth, that I was emotionally abused at home and struggling for a sense of self and self-worth among a sea of high expectations and perfectionistic parents.

As I grew into a teenager, my frame becomes smaller, although my face still bears the remnants of "baby fat". My eyes are not as bright, and there are many pictures where I am just looking at the camera, not really smiling, focusing on a world that lay beyond the lens...a world I was desperate to find, but could not fully conceptualize.

As a college student, my frame grew thinner still, and my smile is once more jubilant, as I believed that I had found "the love of my life". Rarely am I in pictures alone at this point. My left ring finger flaunts a promise ring, and my eyes sparkle in anticipation of what is to come.

As a married adult, my pictures become more somber. The reality of life is evident, and my eyes, although open, are almost dim. I seem to be trying too hard to make it appear as if everything is okay, when in reality, nothing could have been further from the truth. If I were to create a caption for many of these photographs, it would read something like this: is this believable? am in convincing? man, I hope no one asks any questions!

And then I think about my current pictures, a reflection of a journey longer than I ever imagined. My expression is one of victory. I haven't just survived, I've overcome and lived to tell about it. The wrinkles have started to appear, the worry lines more prominent. The crows feet I always believed I'd have from laughing too much have never materialized. Instead, I carry a permanent furrow between my brows, an outside reminder of an internal conflict that has gone on for way too long.

For the most part, these photographs tell only part of the story. To have them tell the full story would be controversial and unacceptable. I think about my injuries, my scars, my internal wounds. What if those pictures were available as well? What if I had those pictures to tandem with the others that I have so proudly displayed in rows and rows of pictures albums?

I learned very early in my life to cover up a deeper and more painful reality. What I could not show in photographs, I learned to reveal in my words. My journals then, have become the missing piece in a much larger self-injury puzzle.

In the beginning, I wasn't sure I wanted to look at all of these pictures. But in doing so, I found that I had an opportunity to ask my mother lots of questions that I'd never been able to articulate before. These pictures were a gateway to her memory and an instrumental part in my being able to lay a foundation for healing.

So many things I'd tried to forget were, in one way or another, captured on film: an expression, an outfit, the other person(s) in the picture. Each of these things were a trigger to my memory as well. And with their help, for the first time in my life, I was able to go back and piece together some missing parts of my past.

This was an incredibly painful process, but a very cathartic one. Until now, there has been a duality in the pictures: who I was versus who I appeared to be. How many times have I smiled on the outside when I was literally screaming on the inside? How many times have I said that things were fine, when in actuality my life was a living hell? How many times have I tried to present one image to the outside world in order to cover up a reality that would have been damaging to those in my life at the time?

So many lies, captured on film.

If you are looking for answers, I think looking at photographs may be a place to start. I mean really look at the photographs. Look at how you're standing, how you're hands are placed, how your eyes look. What do these things say about where you were emotionally at that moment?

I have always enjoyed having my picture taken because it was further proof that I wasn't dead and just didn't know it. But now that I've been able to embrace the self-injurous part of my self, I am looking forward to having my picture taken for a new reason: wholeness and authenticity.

I am no longer hiding anything from myself, my family or the world. I am whole. I am complete. I am okay. If I smile, I want it to be genuine, so that in the future, when I'm looking at them again, I will know that for the first time in my life, what the picture reflects is the only truth that existed.

tags: abuse, authenticity, emotional abuse, healing, memories, photographs, recovery, self-esteem, self-injury, triggers

I cannot tell you how many times I have been reassured by people in my life that I can “call anytime” and that hearing from me is “no bother”. What I can tell you is that I have NEVER called.

It was hard for me to believe that sharing my problems with others wouldn’t bring them down too, and so I kept my feelings to myself. This belief acted as constant fuel for my self-injury.

It seemed like the angrier I was, the more upset I became and the more violent my episodes. The power of my feelings scared me and often I was fearful that I wouldn’t be able to control my SI enough not to cause permanent damage to my bones, muscles or nerves.

It’s sad to say that there are times when you want to be saved from yourself, but it’s true.

There have been many times of desperation when cutting or hitting just wasn’t enough. Those were the scariest times of my life.

So what is a person to do?

I wish now that I would have allowed the people in my life to be there for me. At the time, I thought their offers to talk or come and get me in the middle of the night weren’t sincere and in reality, they were. I didn’t call them because I was afraid of bothering them, or burdening them with my problems. I didn’t call them because I was afraid that they would think what had upset me so much wasn’t that big of a deal. I was afraid that that the things I might tell them would destroy their image of me as a person.

And I was afraid that they would learn about my terrible secret and judge me for it.

I have felt so alone my whole life because I have never met anyone like myself. But because I never allowed myself to be vulnerable in the eyes of others, I added another level of isolation in my life.

SI is hard enough without the additional burdens of loneliness and shame. If you have someone in your life that you trust that is willing to talk to you or come and get you away from a dangerous situation, let them do that for you.

People want to help, they just don’t know how. I wanted help, but didn’t know how to ask for it. It’s a vicious cycle and the only way to break it is to reach out to the people in your life.

I don’t know if I would have self-injured less by talking to a friend or not. But the possibility is there and I didn’t have the courage to take advantage of it.

I hope you will be stronger than I was.

tags: cut, cutters, cutting, getting help, healing, recovery, self-injure, self-injury, therapy

For almost every other disorder in the world, there is an accountability element as part of the treatment plan. Individuals who are a part of a 12-step program are partnered with someone else who is in recovery in order to provide mutual stability for both people during times of weakness.

And yet, for people who struggle with self-injury, finding an accountability partner is incredibly difficult. Few people who self-injure will readily admit that they do and so in times of emotional stress, may not have someone who can relate to their pain, to call or go to.

I was with my ex-husband for sixteen years and his fear of my self-injury led to denial. He was very afraid people would think I was a battered wife and urged me to stop. But that was it. He never talked to me about the feelings behind my actions and his blatant refusal to try and "save me from myself" led to more anger, resentment and self-injury.

February 2007 marked my one year anniversary of not self-injuring. After struggling for more than 30 years with self-injury (cutting, bruising, blunt force trauma, breaking bones, etc.), I found someone who would hold me accountable for my behavior in times of emotional duress.

The first time this person heard about my self-injury he asked for my "tools." I about died. How could I possibly give up the very things that kept me sane? I refused and said I needed them. He asked me to trust him. He said he would "keep" them for me and if I ever thought I needed them, I could ask for them back and we would discuss whether or not self-injury was my only alternative. It took me almost a month to turn my tools over to him.

Since then, I have asked for them only twice (and was told "no") and through talking with him, have realized that cutting wasn't my only option for expressing myself. By not having my tools readily available, the spontaneity of self-injury has been greatly reduced. Not being able to self-injure and being forced to use my words has changed my life. In the beginning it was incredibly difficult and frustrating. But as the months pass, I have learned that it is possible to use words to express what my heart feels. Each emotional episode that I go through without injuring is like a badge of honor to me.

For me to self-injure now would be a huge step backwards. I want to go forwards and my accountability partner is helping me. It is has been crucial for me to have someone to call in the middle of the night or to hold me back from doing something I will later regret. It has been a little more than a year since I self-injured, but it feels like a lifetime. I feel like I have started a new chapter in my life and want to encourage others that they can too.

Find someone you can trust with the "truth." Show them the darkest sides of who you are so they can help bring you back into the light. Your heart and your body will thank you. Trust me, I know.

tags: cut, cutters, cutting, healing, recovery, self-injure, self-injury

According to Dr. Tracy Alderman, a San Diego psychologist and self-injury expert, roughly 13-18% of teens in America deliberately hurt themselves. So what does that mean? How many youths is this disorder impacting? According to US Census data from 2005, 6.8% of the US population is comprised of males ages 15-19, and 6.4% are girls. With a population of over 288 million people in the US, that means that more than 1% of boys and girls ages 15-19 are self-injuring! That is an incredible number of young people!

The United States is ill-prepared to help this number of young people. There needs to be additional funds and resources made available so that individuals who seek help will have access to professionals trained in self-injury! Few therapists and doctors have received training on self-injury and that must change! However, before this kind of training can be identified as a need, more people need to speak out about self-injury. Because this disorder is rooted in shame, few people discuss self-injury and so the statistics are misleading. If someone were to look at the number of reported self-injurers, the numbers would be way too low. It is time to unite and speak up! Self-injury doesn't have to be a terminal condition, but without proper training and education among individuals in the medical community, it may be. The young people of this country need our help. They are relying on us to open doors of healing for them!

tags: healing, recovery, self-injure, self-injury, statistics, teenagers, tracy alderman

from the new book
COMES THE DARKNESS, COMES THE LIGHT:
A Memoir of Cutting, Healing, and Hope
by Vanessa Vega
published by AMACOM Books

The darkness started coming for me on Monday. Much like the flu, it hit the base of my spine first. The slight but undeniable tingling that just won't go away. I have a chill to my bones that I cannot seem to shake, even though I take two to three hot baths a day to try and alleviate it. My patience is nil. My sense of humor, gone. My desire to go anywhere or do anything has left me. I throw myself into a flurry of activity: if I run hard and fast enough, maybe I can beat it this time. Sometimes that works. But not this time.

( Click to read more. )

tags: book excerpt, cut, cutters, cutting, healing, recovery, self-injure, self-injury