My Long Night’s Journey to Day

The marks on my upper arms are almost gone. They’ve gone from a soft red circle, to black and blue and then to a sickly yellow-green. The wounds still hurt to the touch, but what pains me most is not the mark itself. It’s the ugly mark of shame for having done the previously unthinkable -- utilizing self-harm for my survival.

I never understood it. And I never dreamed I would need to do it. Need, because when it’s that bad, I’m desperate enough to do anything to diminish the unbearable pain and tension.

It was the last night of Hanukkah, the end of a long day spent entertaining my kids, holding my colicky baby and trying to keep the house in some semblance of order. I was sitting at the computer trying to help my husband with his college work. My brain was on overload and I couldn’t focus. A glance at the clock showed the late hour and the workload still waiting for me fell on my head with a thud.

I abandoned the computer and went to do the dishes. But the tension in me had risen tenfold, and my hands were not my own. Something inside me wanted to throw the glass I was holding, to smash it to smithereens. I desperately needed to eject this tension, this madness that had taken over my body.

Somehow, I held back, and continued washing the dishes, but after the third glass I surrendered. I ripped off my gloves from shaking hands and tried to undo the bow of my apron. My hands were not cooperating and the strings tangled into each other. As my breath became more labored, I finally managed to undo the knot. I threw down the apron and escaped to my room.

Banging the door shut gave me little reprieve and I reached for the nearest object in sight. The hapless hanger that had been on the bed shattered, pieces flying to all corners of the room.

The tension refused to abate. I bit my left arm. It must have hurt, but I felt only numbness.

I threw myself onto my bed, hoping the tears would come and relieve me of this monster that seemed to be squashing my brains and hijacking my body. But the tears remained stubborn and in desperation, I bit. Hard. First my right arm.

I barely felt it. I raced around the room like a caged rat, desperate for a way out. The tension refused to abate.

I bit my left arm. It must have hurt, but I felt only numbness. This time though, the tears were released and I lay on my bed sobbing uncontrollably, expelling the unbearable pain. I let the tears flow, slowly coming back to the real me. Then it was quiet, my tears spent. I stared up at the ceiling, seeing nothing.

Then, through the haze, I heard my baby crying again. I heaved myself out of bed and went to soothe her. I tried patting her to sleep but her screams only intensified. Sighing, I picked her up and went to lay down on the couch in the dining room.

Snuggled against my chest, my little girl slowly drifted off to sleep. Her gentle breathing slowed my own rapid breathing, bringing a deep sadness in its wake.

Numbly, I allowed my eyes to roam around the darkened room, landing at the flickering flames of the Menorah. Had it been just a few hours prior since we had lit the candles? We had sung the Hanukkah songs with the children, as we ate the last of the donuts and tried to capture the memories on camera. It had all been so beautiful. And now it was all over.

A feeling of hopeless despair filled me. I shut my mind and simply stared at the menorah’s light. The flames seemed to dance in the darkness, calming my ragged emotions. My eyelids were drooping already. I tried closing them, to put an end to this miserable night, but they kept fluttering open. Hypnotized, I watched the blue and red flames yearning, reaching upwards only to drop down again. Slowly, the flames dwindled until they were just beads of orange fire on blackened wicks. Then it was dark.

Hanukkah This Year

It’s now six years later and I think back to that terrible night. I resist the desire to paint over the pain and pretend that the Hanukkah lights made me feel hopeful.

Instead I will say the truth: mental illness is brutal. Depression is a beast. Self-harm is a desperate attempt to make things better. And healing is a struggle. A silent, lonely, painful battle.

I’ve suffered with the illness and I’ve struggled with the shame. Over the years, I have reached out for help. I’ve seen therapists and psychiatrists. I’ve done trauma work, DBT, group therapy, marriage counseling and play therapy for my children. Every now and then I’ve found those individuals who can non-judgmentally listen. And I share. Sometimes more and sometimes less.

There are parts of my illness that I’ve accepted, and still other parts – like self-harm – that I cannot wrap my head around. Me? Self-harm? I am ashamed.

And it’s okay. Because it’s a process, and there’s been progress I can be proud of.

When I sit by the Hanukkah candles this year, with my husband and children around me, we will sing Maoz Tzur and eat donuts and play some dreidel. The flames will dance before me, and inside my heart will be rejoicing as well. Because even as I continue the battle against depression and even as I slip-up again, I have come far. And I know that with God’s help, loving support and my fierce determination, I can go further.