Last May, I finally broke my habit of self-injuring, a feat born of decades of introspection and many failed attempts to abort these episodes. In futile attempts to scale it down and eventually triumph over it, I went through many phases of self-injury.

Over time, self-injuring had replaced violent behavior. During kindergarten, I attempted to kill a little boy in my class. He had peed in his chair and I sat down on it accidentally. My memory is that I pinned him on the ground and went after him with a lead pencil. (I had been told that lead is poisonous.) Twenty years later, I saw my kindergarten teacher and she didn’t remember it, so it may not have been so dramatic. Still, even in kindergarten, I felt horrible remorse for attempted murder. I had a strong moral conscience, even as a little kid.

My last murder attempt was in 3rd grade. I threw a dart at my brother during a fight. Fortunately, I missed him, though my memory has it that I missed by only a few inches. Again, I felt horrible remorse. I vowed never again to try to kill someone.

I came up with a less violent and more sensually gratifying way to handle my frustration--banging my head. The physical pain distracted me from my anguish. I had complete control over the rhythm and force of my fist. It was an efficient way to punish myself for my incompetence, in theory. In actuality, however, my self-punishment did not forestall a spanking or, worse yet, the removal of a treasured privilege. The authority figure in command always managed to squeeze in a spanking, at least. It was a humiliating cycle.

In elementary school, I found most academic subjects easy except for arithmetic. Adding made no sense to me, especially the carrying part. My columns were too crooked to add the right digits; furthermore, I simply could not trust the magical thinking behind carrying. It was too much of a leap for my literal brain. I shrieked and banged my head against my desk in frustration trying to follow all those illogical steps.

There were 3 report card grades: O (outstanding), S (satisfactory), N (needs improvement). I got O’s in reading, spelling, science, art and music; and N’s in arithmetic, penmanship, neatness, sportsmanship, and following directions. The blank section of my report was filled in with a flawlessly penned but perplexed epistle from my teacher to my parents.

Later on, geography, algebra I, lab science, survey history, wheel throwing, accounting, and other difficult classes replaced arithmetic as triggers. I freaked out at work, when I couldn’t figure out how to do something or when things got confusing and chaotic; on walks, when I stepped on dog manure; at home, when my computer seized up or I couldn’t find something. I lashed out at anybody who tried to comfort me.

Mental health professionals often think self-injury is an attention-seeking behavior. It rarely is, actually. Mine was an attempt to punish myself for being so incompetent and to redirect myself from the agony of frustration to the respite of mere pain. The drama was embarrassing. People’s attempts to console me were humiliating.

I walked a tightrope between the comfort that came from distracting myself with measured and predictable physical pain, and the very real possibility of disfiguring myself permanently. My freakouts transmogrified over time as danger chased the comfort of self-inflicted pain.

I figured out that head banging could lead to brain injury so I switched to pressing my eyeballs with my thumbs. Then, having figured out that pressure could damage my eyeballs and jeopardize my vision, I switched to cutting below my left wrist with an Exacto knife. Since I was not attempting suicide—only wishing my life would somehow evaporate into a cloud of oblivion—I stayed away from razors.

I switched to stapling the same area of my hand. The pain was soothing without being gory. I then figured out, though, that the skin is a great protector against an increasing multitude of drug-resistant bacteria, so I switched to shrieking as loud as I could. Screaming obliterated my voice and threatening my singing voice, so I switched to holding my breath really hard against the inside of my head. I then figured out that holding one’s breath so strenuously can cause a stroke.

I was at a loss for harmless pain. In the meantime, I was starting to discern an infinitesimally short decision point in which I could execute the choice not to self-injure. This window of opportunity was perilously ephemeral, however. I strategized on how to take advantage of it, but my habit was too ingrained to do anything about it. I watched myself helplessly.

I started developing memory problems that alarmed me. Valium and Ambien were the main culprits. I gave up Valium, which I had been using to come down from the freakouts. I experienced two weeks of heightened anxiety, but my memory problems subsided. Without this chemical buffer, however, I was left only with my inner resources.

A friend of mine had, many years ago, given me a beautifully painted affirmation card, which I put on my bathroom mirror. I promptly forgot about it.

I came up with three affirmations of my own: 1) No self-injury. 2) Be optimistic; trust the universe. 3) Don’t dwell on boring people or unavoidable things. The three were only tangentially related to each other. The last two had next to nothing to do with freakouts. But they were a start.

I liked the idea of creating my own affirmation card, but writing something neat and pretty enough to look at when I brushed my teeth was too onerous. The project did not interest me artistically.

Rather than dwelling on my lack of creative inspiration or, even worse, waiting until inspiration hit, I went ahead and drafted my affirmations on an index card in hasty all-caps and tangled, unwieldy scribbles. I ran out of space on the bottom of the card so I had to write the third affirmation in tiny, spidery handwriting. I pinned my sloppy affirmation card on a bookshelf.

At about this time, an ex-friend of mine who had been harassing me for years passed away suddenly, leaving a peaceful void. In my heart, I had wished her well but wanted her out of my life.

I had my first non-self-injurious freakout a couple of weeks later. This time, I was able to seize the very palpable and real decision point not to self-injure. Quoting Robert Frost, a favorite poet of mine: "I took the road less traveled by/And that has made all the difference." The "less traveled by" part was beside the point for me in this instance, except that most people don’t self-injure.

My freakouts are still a thing of much whining, weeping, self-pitying, and self-loathing. The lack of instant cathartic release prolongs the misery. The reward, though, is that the recovery period of blank despair is shorter, and that I no longer put myself in physical danger.

Mary-Minn Sirag