Kawakami Gensai
10-09-2005, 05:22 PM
SEVEN DAYS
I stared out into space with a meaningless stone in my hand and a mind stuck in reminiscence. Upon painful completion – and to this day – I am not sure what I really learned during my third and hopefully final year of mental attention.
Reminiscing isn’t the healthiest thing for me, as mostly all of what I can remember is something negative. I also believe that it was not wise to opt to write a paper for my English class on self-injury, a bridge that I thought I had already crossed. I sat at the computer and was typing my report when, gradually yet seemingly abruptly, I began to remember. Past memories and flashbacks tore at me as I thought about my life over the past couple of years, but I wasn’t aware of the psychological damage it was causing me.
After writing for fifteen minutes or so, I lost it. I stopped what I was doing and went up to my room. The process was painstakingly obsessive in terms of cleanliness, involving a superfluous amount of hydrogen peroxide and a cleansed razor. I put on my instrumental Japanese stage music, the music that I prefer to listen to when I am deep in thought, depressed, or (when I used to do it) harming myself. I unsheathed the small blade, and drew it to my right arm. I dragged it slowly across my skin horizontally, and continued in this destructive fashion until I had approximately six cuts that were each within a half of an inch of each other. After I had a decent amount of damage done, I doused my arm with hydrogen peroxide, allowing the mild sting to thrive and the white foam to slither down my scarred arm. By the time I was finished, there were sixteen cuts in total. However, it was weird that time because I didn’t get a release or any similar sensation, and that was the only method I had of blowing off steam. I went back to the computer with befuddled emotions and told Krista, my best friend – the one who knows everything about me - what I had done. She told me that what I did hurt her. She said that she didn’t even believe that I cared about her anymore. Immediately after she said that, something in my brain snapped. It was more than just that though…it was an accumulation of similar incidents that began occurring very early in my life. I remember many altercations with my parents that resulted in a loss of pleasant or even halfway decent contact for a while, and on one occasion a complete loss of contact for several months. Since I got my parents angry so much, I believed that they thought I didn’t love them and I believed in turn that they didn’t love me. They frequently said that I made their lives “miserable” or “hell”, and after that was drilled into my head I began to believe that I had no value as a person. The same thing happened with my sister (replacing the pejorative comments with condescending comments) and therefore the same mindset was produced. For a number of years I felt that there were no connections in my family. And now, the one person I know that I truly and deeply care about and who feels the same way is telling me that I don’t love them. That pushed me over the edge. Forced reticence. Abject loneliness. Emotional implosion. All of this stress that built up over the years just needed one push to drive me to suicide, and there it was. I still do not know why I did this, yet I think it had something to do with my severe need for venting and my extreme groggy state; I e-mailed one of my teachers, explaining to them how I felt, focusing on the suicidal aspect. It was a last ditch effort to find someone who could actually understand. After this disassociate episode I went up to bed and fell asleep, after choosing not to carry out my plan of overdosing on my sleeping/anti-anxiety meds – remaining suicidal nonetheless. In eight hours or so, my life would begin to undergo a sickeningly agonizing metamorphosis.
It was somewhere in the neighborhood of 9:00 A.M. when I woke up. My dad was telling me that I had to go to my psychiatrist, Dr. Schmerler. I thought it odd to go at such a time because I usually went after school, but I got up and went with a dark sense of intrigue. The car ride to the hospital was unbelievably lengthy and shrouded in some sort of ominous haze. I grew more and more apprehensive as we drew nearer to the hospital. However, I wasn’t completely sure that anything was amiss until I arrived. I had to talk to someone who was persistently interrogating my mental stability – a practice I was used to, yet still made me feel uneasy. After the first wave of questions was done, I was told to get into the hospital clothing; God, I abhor wearing those blue and white getups from hell. I had to go to one of those beds in the E.R. and wait there. In a while, Dr. Schmerler came and asked me some more questions. I was exasperated and anxious at that moment, and it only ascended to withering heights for an excruciatingly long time thereafter. Despite my attempt to reason, my fate was decided. I was to be admitted to the hospital for God knows how long.
I lay on the hospital bed in vexed and addled frustration. My dad was sitting in a chair that was near the foot of the mattress, and he was trying to be supportive. Of course, I didn’t accept his condolences due to my intense state of taciturnity. He had brought all of my CD’s, composed of Eric Clapton and Jimi Hendrix. They served to calm me (in a minute manner) for a while that paled in comparison to the ten to twelve hours that I rotted in that inferno. Food was brought to me – I believe it was haddock – but I didn’t eat it. My appetite was overly lackluster from the stress put on me in such a comparably short time.
Finally, it was time to go to my new room. I carried my food with me, and walked alongside my dad while following the hospital worker. The walk there felt like the car ride to the hospital in an eerie way. I reached the room, which was excellent now that I think about it. When you walked in, there was a complete tiled bathroom to the left and a large cabinet to the right. There were two white beds, both a fair distance apart and each near a wall. I took the bed nearest the window, for it was the softer of the two. At the right side of the room (where the foot of the beds faced) there was a long desk that had two chairs. I would be doing a fair amount of drawing and writing at that bureau throughout my stay.
The first night was pure agony. I had no desire whatsoever to be there, and I truly believed that it would do nothing in terms of helping me. The only positive thing was that I was there with but three people, and they were girls. I always felt more comfortable talking to girls about deeper things…I guess I just think they can understand better or something. With nothing else in my mind but the horrific thought of staying in this place, I was sprawled out, face down, on my bed. After I lay there for a good while, I heard people talking. Group had started, but I didn’t want to participate. My interest was moderately aroused, however, as I heard a girl mention one of my favorite novels, The Perks of Being a Wallflower. I was tempted to join in, but I was too enveloped in temperamental disinclination. After a while, I fell asleep, pretending I was in my own bed.
I woke up the next morning with a sense of acceptance. I still didn’t want to be there, but I began to think it might not be as bad as I had anticipated. It was a rather sudden mindset. I hadn’t expected to get over it that quickly, especially with scorn being the last thing on my mind before I fell asleep the last night.
I talked to a girl named Lara (mainly) at breakfast, as well as two other girls named Pcari and Samantha. I hardly made a dent in my meal, and that would hardly fluctuate over time. I guess one’s appetite cannot thrive in such a synthetic environment...
Lara made me feel the most comfortable, Pcari made me feel like I was around friends, and Samantha was just…well, she complained quite a bit about being in the hospital, particularly during group. Basically, her arsenal was consisted of but one appendage: her saying she wouldn’t cut or do anything of the sort ever again because she’d end up back in the hospital. She was just missing the entire point – mental stability – and wouldn’t get it no matter how many times you ran it by her.
To shift focus, Lara really was something…she had one of the most genuine laughs and priceless smiles/random or suggestive facial expressions that I have ever had the fortune to witness. I have many bittersweet memories of her, yet there are ones that stand out in the middle of the road waving neon-colored flagpoles at moving cars. I remember finding sexual innuendos hidden in the many cards of the game “Pictionary”, and always going over to her and showing them to her. We’d laugh constantly at those words, as they were great in number and practically impossible to miss by the perverted pubescent mind (I speak for myself here). I also remember drawing hundreds of M&M’s on the whiteboard with her, the same one we used to play “Pictionary”. On a more serious note, she was just really fun to be around and was intelligent as well. She always offered coherent advice and commentary during group sessions, altering between serious and slightly comical approaches. I am extremely grateful that I got to know Lara. She is one of the most remarkable individuals that I have ever met.
As time passed at a gradual pace, I grew more at ease. I talked with Pcari in the TV/group room frequently, and we laughed at all of the cheesy “Amazing Animals” videos. We watched a few of those – they were pretty entertaining to say the least. We watched “Dinosaurs” with Lara, and we all laughed in unison to form some sort of unbreakable and beautiful cacophonous bond.
I adapted relatively quickly to the whole “group” idea. I was completely open. I held nothing back…I gave more of my essence to everyone there than anyone I associate with now. I lived with those souls for days, and learned a tremendous amount about them as people. I laughed harder there than anywhere else. I felt more familiar there than anywhere else. I felt more depressed than ever before after it was all over, in a way too aberrant to put into words.
My friendships at the hospital, particularly with Lara, flourished and grew to an exceptionally high level in a remarkably short period of time. I guess that could be why the aftershock was virtually unbearable. I got to know those people better than many of the friends I have now, and that bothers me everyday. Relationships will remain at a superficial level until one person of the two decides to get serious about it; of course, it is hard to do this, but I see it as essential. I want to deepen my relationships; I think all friends owe it to each other.
Pcari was the first to be discharged. Lara and her were very good friends, and Lara was very upset when she left. I missed that warm sense of familiarity that Pcari offered. She was always laughing and could provide comic relief during pretty much any situation, which helped to ease my anxiety. When Pcari was discharged, I was pushed a bit closer to the edge of the cliff.
After Pcari was discharged, I remember giving Lara a note (I believe it was the same evening). I just wrote to her about my feelings for her. Of course, it wasn’t that straightforward. I just commented on her great laugh and smile. There was definitely more, and I’d like to say I’d mentioned that I care about her, but I am not completely sure. She gave me a note back with her phone number, saying that she had Pcari’s number as well and that we might be able to hang out sometime. That never happened, and I doubt it ever will happen in the future. I’m not even sure if I want that now…
Wednesday, June 1st, at 10:30 A.M., Lara was discharged. That killed me. Samantha and I never really talked much, and she was the only one I had left. That didn’t help the situation. I needed that familiarity back…I needed Lara back…out of nowhere I was thrust into a new inferno – just as abruptly as my awakening on the day of my admission. In addition, an adult in-patient required the occupation of my room, so I was moved into Lara’s old room. It was a weird coincidence, judging that there were more than two other rooms available for me. I’m not confident in the relevance of that statement, but I’ll let it slide.
My memory is very fuzzy in regards to this whole situation as of now, but if my memory does indeed serve me correctly, I believe that three new people came into the picture (the same day Lara left) – Kevin, Kelly, and my new roommate, John. The day Lara left was very difficult. We (Samantha, Kevin, Kelly, and John) were in a group session, and I was having a very hard time. We were doing some random activity in the television room, and I began to feel exceedingly anxious, more so than ever before. Every minute that I sat in that chair, the anxiety grew more unbearable. I began to feel extremely hot, and I started sweating. My stomach was committing seppuku and my mind was imploding. My knees bounced like jackhammers and my fingers curled nervously around the armrest of the chair as I sat there in an unfathomable world of pain.
Group ended, and I was still feeling just as anxious. However, Kevin offered to help. My anxiety attack was moderately soothed when he pulled me into an obscene game of “Mad-Libs”. I laughed raucously throughout the game, yet managed to maintain my quivering state. I went to bed feeling nervous.
The second and last pleasant incident that night that I remember is that of the night spent with John. It was very interesting – I actually enjoyed myself. We talked about regular things that guys talk about after we got past the serious part that involved (obviously) being in-patient. I am not going to get into detail about our conversation, mostly because I cannot remember the majority of it and partially because what I can remember is obscene. All I can remember is we talked about videogames and “techniques”. We laughed for practically the whole night. I owe Lara and Pcari so much for getting me through those first five/six days, and I owe Kevin and John for getting me through the rest of the sixth and the last seventh day at the hospital. I won’t forget any of them.
I was discharged on June 2nd, 2005, the day after Lara was discharged. I continued my therapy by attending the Partial Hospitalization Program everyday after school for four hours. I made a lot of new friends there, yet none of which I kept in contact with. I met up with Lara there as well, and things were going incredibly well with her for the first week. I remember one day in particular that I talked to her for at least forty minutes on end. At one point she even said that she cared about me. I said the same thing back to her. The feeling I got from that was satisfyingly warm and simply amazing. After that, however, everything went downhill. I kept up my other relationships with the people in Partial, but Lara slipped away quickly. After that first week, she always came in angry. I am assuming that it was because of family problems from what I learned about her life at in-patient, but I am not sure. After I was discharged from Partial, I left many things behind. I left all of the friends I made in the hospital, and I left Lara’s situation to my imagination. Rumor had it that she was back at in-patient. I just hope that she’s okay by now.
I’ve had three or four consecutive years of therapy, but I’m still not sure exactly what I learned. All I can come up with is that I realized how valuable human life is, and how emotions have great power over us. Also, people have a need to talk. If that need isn’t met, great havoc may be wreaked in the form of mental instability. And when I say talk, I do not mean simple superficial conversation (although that does have its place); I am referring to getting your feelings out. It’s a very clichéd comment, but it’s true – you cannot keep things bottled up inside if you plan to maintain a stable state of mental/emotional health.
This is a more recent experience. I've been dealing with SI issues for over 2 years now, so don't take that 'first' incident to be a spur of the moment thing. Just wanted to clarify :)
If you actually took the time to read this, thanks a lot.
I stared out into space with a meaningless stone in my hand and a mind stuck in reminiscence. Upon painful completion – and to this day – I am not sure what I really learned during my third and hopefully final year of mental attention.
Reminiscing isn’t the healthiest thing for me, as mostly all of what I can remember is something negative. I also believe that it was not wise to opt to write a paper for my English class on self-injury, a bridge that I thought I had already crossed. I sat at the computer and was typing my report when, gradually yet seemingly abruptly, I began to remember. Past memories and flashbacks tore at me as I thought about my life over the past couple of years, but I wasn’t aware of the psychological damage it was causing me.
After writing for fifteen minutes or so, I lost it. I stopped what I was doing and went up to my room. The process was painstakingly obsessive in terms of cleanliness, involving a superfluous amount of hydrogen peroxide and a cleansed razor. I put on my instrumental Japanese stage music, the music that I prefer to listen to when I am deep in thought, depressed, or (when I used to do it) harming myself. I unsheathed the small blade, and drew it to my right arm. I dragged it slowly across my skin horizontally, and continued in this destructive fashion until I had approximately six cuts that were each within a half of an inch of each other. After I had a decent amount of damage done, I doused my arm with hydrogen peroxide, allowing the mild sting to thrive and the white foam to slither down my scarred arm. By the time I was finished, there were sixteen cuts in total. However, it was weird that time because I didn’t get a release or any similar sensation, and that was the only method I had of blowing off steam. I went back to the computer with befuddled emotions and told Krista, my best friend – the one who knows everything about me - what I had done. She told me that what I did hurt her. She said that she didn’t even believe that I cared about her anymore. Immediately after she said that, something in my brain snapped. It was more than just that though…it was an accumulation of similar incidents that began occurring very early in my life. I remember many altercations with my parents that resulted in a loss of pleasant or even halfway decent contact for a while, and on one occasion a complete loss of contact for several months. Since I got my parents angry so much, I believed that they thought I didn’t love them and I believed in turn that they didn’t love me. They frequently said that I made their lives “miserable” or “hell”, and after that was drilled into my head I began to believe that I had no value as a person. The same thing happened with my sister (replacing the pejorative comments with condescending comments) and therefore the same mindset was produced. For a number of years I felt that there were no connections in my family. And now, the one person I know that I truly and deeply care about and who feels the same way is telling me that I don’t love them. That pushed me over the edge. Forced reticence. Abject loneliness. Emotional implosion. All of this stress that built up over the years just needed one push to drive me to suicide, and there it was. I still do not know why I did this, yet I think it had something to do with my severe need for venting and my extreme groggy state; I e-mailed one of my teachers, explaining to them how I felt, focusing on the suicidal aspect. It was a last ditch effort to find someone who could actually understand. After this disassociate episode I went up to bed and fell asleep, after choosing not to carry out my plan of overdosing on my sleeping/anti-anxiety meds – remaining suicidal nonetheless. In eight hours or so, my life would begin to undergo a sickeningly agonizing metamorphosis.
It was somewhere in the neighborhood of 9:00 A.M. when I woke up. My dad was telling me that I had to go to my psychiatrist, Dr. Schmerler. I thought it odd to go at such a time because I usually went after school, but I got up and went with a dark sense of intrigue. The car ride to the hospital was unbelievably lengthy and shrouded in some sort of ominous haze. I grew more and more apprehensive as we drew nearer to the hospital. However, I wasn’t completely sure that anything was amiss until I arrived. I had to talk to someone who was persistently interrogating my mental stability – a practice I was used to, yet still made me feel uneasy. After the first wave of questions was done, I was told to get into the hospital clothing; God, I abhor wearing those blue and white getups from hell. I had to go to one of those beds in the E.R. and wait there. In a while, Dr. Schmerler came and asked me some more questions. I was exasperated and anxious at that moment, and it only ascended to withering heights for an excruciatingly long time thereafter. Despite my attempt to reason, my fate was decided. I was to be admitted to the hospital for God knows how long.
I lay on the hospital bed in vexed and addled frustration. My dad was sitting in a chair that was near the foot of the mattress, and he was trying to be supportive. Of course, I didn’t accept his condolences due to my intense state of taciturnity. He had brought all of my CD’s, composed of Eric Clapton and Jimi Hendrix. They served to calm me (in a minute manner) for a while that paled in comparison to the ten to twelve hours that I rotted in that inferno. Food was brought to me – I believe it was haddock – but I didn’t eat it. My appetite was overly lackluster from the stress put on me in such a comparably short time.
Finally, it was time to go to my new room. I carried my food with me, and walked alongside my dad while following the hospital worker. The walk there felt like the car ride to the hospital in an eerie way. I reached the room, which was excellent now that I think about it. When you walked in, there was a complete tiled bathroom to the left and a large cabinet to the right. There were two white beds, both a fair distance apart and each near a wall. I took the bed nearest the window, for it was the softer of the two. At the right side of the room (where the foot of the beds faced) there was a long desk that had two chairs. I would be doing a fair amount of drawing and writing at that bureau throughout my stay.
The first night was pure agony. I had no desire whatsoever to be there, and I truly believed that it would do nothing in terms of helping me. The only positive thing was that I was there with but three people, and they were girls. I always felt more comfortable talking to girls about deeper things…I guess I just think they can understand better or something. With nothing else in my mind but the horrific thought of staying in this place, I was sprawled out, face down, on my bed. After I lay there for a good while, I heard people talking. Group had started, but I didn’t want to participate. My interest was moderately aroused, however, as I heard a girl mention one of my favorite novels, The Perks of Being a Wallflower. I was tempted to join in, but I was too enveloped in temperamental disinclination. After a while, I fell asleep, pretending I was in my own bed.
I woke up the next morning with a sense of acceptance. I still didn’t want to be there, but I began to think it might not be as bad as I had anticipated. It was a rather sudden mindset. I hadn’t expected to get over it that quickly, especially with scorn being the last thing on my mind before I fell asleep the last night.
I talked to a girl named Lara (mainly) at breakfast, as well as two other girls named Pcari and Samantha. I hardly made a dent in my meal, and that would hardly fluctuate over time. I guess one’s appetite cannot thrive in such a synthetic environment...
Lara made me feel the most comfortable, Pcari made me feel like I was around friends, and Samantha was just…well, she complained quite a bit about being in the hospital, particularly during group. Basically, her arsenal was consisted of but one appendage: her saying she wouldn’t cut or do anything of the sort ever again because she’d end up back in the hospital. She was just missing the entire point – mental stability – and wouldn’t get it no matter how many times you ran it by her.
To shift focus, Lara really was something…she had one of the most genuine laughs and priceless smiles/random or suggestive facial expressions that I have ever had the fortune to witness. I have many bittersweet memories of her, yet there are ones that stand out in the middle of the road waving neon-colored flagpoles at moving cars. I remember finding sexual innuendos hidden in the many cards of the game “Pictionary”, and always going over to her and showing them to her. We’d laugh constantly at those words, as they were great in number and practically impossible to miss by the perverted pubescent mind (I speak for myself here). I also remember drawing hundreds of M&M’s on the whiteboard with her, the same one we used to play “Pictionary”. On a more serious note, she was just really fun to be around and was intelligent as well. She always offered coherent advice and commentary during group sessions, altering between serious and slightly comical approaches. I am extremely grateful that I got to know Lara. She is one of the most remarkable individuals that I have ever met.
As time passed at a gradual pace, I grew more at ease. I talked with Pcari in the TV/group room frequently, and we laughed at all of the cheesy “Amazing Animals” videos. We watched a few of those – they were pretty entertaining to say the least. We watched “Dinosaurs” with Lara, and we all laughed in unison to form some sort of unbreakable and beautiful cacophonous bond.
I adapted relatively quickly to the whole “group” idea. I was completely open. I held nothing back…I gave more of my essence to everyone there than anyone I associate with now. I lived with those souls for days, and learned a tremendous amount about them as people. I laughed harder there than anywhere else. I felt more familiar there than anywhere else. I felt more depressed than ever before after it was all over, in a way too aberrant to put into words.
My friendships at the hospital, particularly with Lara, flourished and grew to an exceptionally high level in a remarkably short period of time. I guess that could be why the aftershock was virtually unbearable. I got to know those people better than many of the friends I have now, and that bothers me everyday. Relationships will remain at a superficial level until one person of the two decides to get serious about it; of course, it is hard to do this, but I see it as essential. I want to deepen my relationships; I think all friends owe it to each other.
Pcari was the first to be discharged. Lara and her were very good friends, and Lara was very upset when she left. I missed that warm sense of familiarity that Pcari offered. She was always laughing and could provide comic relief during pretty much any situation, which helped to ease my anxiety. When Pcari was discharged, I was pushed a bit closer to the edge of the cliff.
After Pcari was discharged, I remember giving Lara a note (I believe it was the same evening). I just wrote to her about my feelings for her. Of course, it wasn’t that straightforward. I just commented on her great laugh and smile. There was definitely more, and I’d like to say I’d mentioned that I care about her, but I am not completely sure. She gave me a note back with her phone number, saying that she had Pcari’s number as well and that we might be able to hang out sometime. That never happened, and I doubt it ever will happen in the future. I’m not even sure if I want that now…
Wednesday, June 1st, at 10:30 A.M., Lara was discharged. That killed me. Samantha and I never really talked much, and she was the only one I had left. That didn’t help the situation. I needed that familiarity back…I needed Lara back…out of nowhere I was thrust into a new inferno – just as abruptly as my awakening on the day of my admission. In addition, an adult in-patient required the occupation of my room, so I was moved into Lara’s old room. It was a weird coincidence, judging that there were more than two other rooms available for me. I’m not confident in the relevance of that statement, but I’ll let it slide.
My memory is very fuzzy in regards to this whole situation as of now, but if my memory does indeed serve me correctly, I believe that three new people came into the picture (the same day Lara left) – Kevin, Kelly, and my new roommate, John. The day Lara left was very difficult. We (Samantha, Kevin, Kelly, and John) were in a group session, and I was having a very hard time. We were doing some random activity in the television room, and I began to feel exceedingly anxious, more so than ever before. Every minute that I sat in that chair, the anxiety grew more unbearable. I began to feel extremely hot, and I started sweating. My stomach was committing seppuku and my mind was imploding. My knees bounced like jackhammers and my fingers curled nervously around the armrest of the chair as I sat there in an unfathomable world of pain.
Group ended, and I was still feeling just as anxious. However, Kevin offered to help. My anxiety attack was moderately soothed when he pulled me into an obscene game of “Mad-Libs”. I laughed raucously throughout the game, yet managed to maintain my quivering state. I went to bed feeling nervous.
The second and last pleasant incident that night that I remember is that of the night spent with John. It was very interesting – I actually enjoyed myself. We talked about regular things that guys talk about after we got past the serious part that involved (obviously) being in-patient. I am not going to get into detail about our conversation, mostly because I cannot remember the majority of it and partially because what I can remember is obscene. All I can remember is we talked about videogames and “techniques”. We laughed for practically the whole night. I owe Lara and Pcari so much for getting me through those first five/six days, and I owe Kevin and John for getting me through the rest of the sixth and the last seventh day at the hospital. I won’t forget any of them.
I was discharged on June 2nd, 2005, the day after Lara was discharged. I continued my therapy by attending the Partial Hospitalization Program everyday after school for four hours. I made a lot of new friends there, yet none of which I kept in contact with. I met up with Lara there as well, and things were going incredibly well with her for the first week. I remember one day in particular that I talked to her for at least forty minutes on end. At one point she even said that she cared about me. I said the same thing back to her. The feeling I got from that was satisfyingly warm and simply amazing. After that, however, everything went downhill. I kept up my other relationships with the people in Partial, but Lara slipped away quickly. After that first week, she always came in angry. I am assuming that it was because of family problems from what I learned about her life at in-patient, but I am not sure. After I was discharged from Partial, I left many things behind. I left all of the friends I made in the hospital, and I left Lara’s situation to my imagination. Rumor had it that she was back at in-patient. I just hope that she’s okay by now.
I’ve had three or four consecutive years of therapy, but I’m still not sure exactly what I learned. All I can come up with is that I realized how valuable human life is, and how emotions have great power over us. Also, people have a need to talk. If that need isn’t met, great havoc may be wreaked in the form of mental instability. And when I say talk, I do not mean simple superficial conversation (although that does have its place); I am referring to getting your feelings out. It’s a very clichéd comment, but it’s true – you cannot keep things bottled up inside if you plan to maintain a stable state of mental/emotional health.
This is a more recent experience. I've been dealing with SI issues for over 2 years now, so don't take that 'first' incident to be a spur of the moment thing. Just wanted to clarify :)
If you actually took the time to read this, thanks a lot.