Mildly Uncomfortable
By Samantha Lopez
It took me a few therapists to realize that there are many ways to be self-destructive beyond physical self-harm.
Every really terrible event in my life happened when I was a kid. My unresolved childhood trauma plus untreated mental illness resulted in the most potent cocktail of spiraling self-hatred. For a long time, I didn’t know what was going on with my brain. It felt like a bunch of tiny zaps in my head that sent a flow of electric charge throughout my whole body. It was often uncomfortable, and sometimes very painful. At its worst I would end up on my bedroom floor in the fetal position, trying to scratch through my skin to make it stop. I would pull out my hair, I would scream, and I would cry myself into a blinding fit, coming-to only to realize that somehow there’s broken glass on the floor and my hand was bleeding.
Over the years, I’ve tried to explain to shrinks, psychologists, and friends what the sensations are like:
Imagine you’re on a rollercoaster, right? You're gradually moving up higher, and higher...your tummy is full of butterflies, and your body feels a little tickly from the anticipated release of dopamine and endorphins. You’re waiting for the sweet sensation of release, so close, here it comes and...nothing. Nothing happens. That’s the end of the ride. That’s how I feel all the time. I feel like I’m constantly on the edge of one big release.
They say symptoms often start to show between the ages of 17 and 21. That’s also around the time I figured out there were things I could do to make myself numb, to self-medicate. In high school I started showing up to classes drunk, sneaking vodka in water bottles, and skipping class to get high in the park down the street. But no matter what I did, I couldn’t completely stop the tingling sensation under my skin. It felt like a million tiny shards of glass working their way through my circulatory system. It was the most forceful combination of pleasure and pain, and it repeatedly drove me to the edge of safety and sanity.
Eventually I would learn healthier (emphasis on the “ier”) ways to manage the physical manifestations of my trauma and mental illness. It’s still there, but I’m more aware of it and can at least prepare a little. As I have gotten older, I am at least less likely to put myself in immediate danger.
Music became my safe space, and a way to maneuver through my bodily experiences. A lot of the time it starts with this incomprehensible amount of energy, I want to jump, scream, dance. I have a bunch of playlists for the different kinds of emotional swings and sensations. Sometimes, it’s my “Volatile/Horny Girl” mix of Garbage, Hole, Nine Inch Nails, Massive Attack, etc. Other times, it’s my “Mania: RADIOHEAD EDITION” mix. Although Radiohead’s music can sometimes feed into my paranoia and loosened grip with reality through their heavy synth fades and precision. I like music that can help me drown out the tingling. Music that can help me hide behind it. Music that works as a vehicle for the sensation to travel through my body. There’s only one thing I listen to when I’m at my lowest though–the record I put on when I’ve lost all grasp on reality. Every one of my senses becomes amplified a million times. I imagine steam coming out of my ears, my brain melting out of my skull. I’m in overdrive, and I can’t breathe, and I just want it to stop. I just want to die.
At this point I put on Turn on the Bright Lights by Interpol. It’s my favorite record of all time. It’s filled with emotional disconnect, it’s paradoxical–confident and insecure–filled with passion and complete apathy, and driven by an intimate catharsis. It’s me. The entire album mirrors a nervous breakdown. Seeming calm and cool on the outside, while on the inside drowning in personality-based anxieties. The songs aren’t slow or downtrodden; on the contrary, each song is power-driven and urgent, filled with the same inexplicable energy that embraces the tingling sensation in my body and somehow manages to cool it down. It’s backed with bleak melody, serrated riffs, and atmospheric percussion at every corner. It begins with harsh and subdued outbursts of aggression and ends with that anger dissipating, with a calm and peaceful sense of acceptance and complacency. Which is how I hope each of these fits end.
***
I’ve come a long way since 17, 20, and even 23, but sometimes there’s a thirst that wants to be quenched, driving me to act recklessly. I’m constantly looking for a fix, and even though I’m better about keeping the urge at bay, I wasn’t always. For a while that fix was sex. I’ve been obsessed with sex since a young age. That’s what happens when you’re introduced to it way before you should have been. There was a point where my curiosity was healthy and normal; sneaking into my parents’ porn drawer, making my Barbie dolls rub on each other, staying up late to sneak peeks at the CINEMAX channel. I’m not sure when it became a problem, and I really don’t remember how it became so dangerous.
At 16 I’d be in my room listening to “Criminal” by Fiona Apple on repeat as I posted on my Tumblr about how badly I wanted to fuck and be fucked–reposting images that said things like “just pin me against the wall” and “speak french with your tongue between my thighs,” peppered between Marina and The Diamonds and Lana Del Rey lyrics. I’d post the most provocative photos of myself that I could without violating the Tumblr guidelines. I’d welcome suggestive messages in my inbox, talk with strangers, lie about my age, and even send photos and videos. I didn’t want anything from them. I just wanted them to want me. I wanted to be in control. Because for so long, I wasn’t. As a result of this craving for control and attention I’ve put myself into a lot of dangerous situations with a lot of strange men over the years.
At 18, coming back from the pool, a few friends and I decided we needed some snacks for our movie night. They went into the store and I hopped into the front seat, with just my towel wrapped around my wet swimsuit. I was flipping through a case of CDs–St. Vincent, Mitski, Regina Spektor, and whatever else was popular in the mid-2010’s–when I felt someone staring at me. I looked over to my left, past the driver’s seat, and noticed a man watching me. He must’ve been at least 35, maybe older, who knows. When you’re 18, everyone out of high school is just old. He was cute though. I remember he had a scruffy beard, which wasn’t at all uncommon in Oregon, and really fluffy, brown, curly hair. I remember a carseat in the back, so he must’ve been around Dad-age.
He kept looking over at me and smiling. I was getting nervous, but I was also starting to feel warm all over, as if the tingling was now at the forefront in my body. I scooted over to the driver’s seat, closer to his passenger window. He waved at me, and I waved back. I don’t know what came over me, but suddenly I was looking directly at him and smiling back. I started to slowly take off my wet towel, and he sat up straight and leaned up against his window. I started to pull down the wet straps of my swimsuit one at a time, holding my breasts in with just my elbows in the locked position. His face was pushed so hard forward I thought he was going to break through his window. I started to tease him. I kept smiling. Every little motion I made with my body would elicit a physical response from him. As if he was a puppet and I controlled his strings. I remember he sunk back into his seat, his head perked just enough to watch me. I couldn’t see his bottom half or his hands anymore, but I knew what he was doing. I kept teasing him, slipping the swimsuit down, almost showing him, but not quite. I could see his breathing growing heavier and his skin looked flush. I started swaying my body side-to-side. He was breathing heavier and heavier. I swayed faster and faster. He tilted his head back in release, and I could see the rise and fall of his chest. I don’t remember what he did afterward or if he looked at me again. I just knew that I made him feel that way–that I did that. And I felt powerful. My friends walked out of the store. I slipped my straps back up and moved back to the backseat. They got in the car and I just sat there as if nothing had happened.
“Hey, we got you the mint Oreos.
“Oh, thanks.”
I equated my self-worth to men wanting to sleep with me and used this to try and numb the tingling. There’s a lot that comes with being someone with a history of sexual abuse: trust issues, low self-esteem, negative body-image. I had fallen into a pattern of confusing sex for love. I spent years on blogs and chat groups falling for men who only reinforced the idea that I was worthless, not capable of receiving love and respect, and only good for bringing pleasure. I would send licentious things to men online, and they would make me feel lusted over. I always felt good at the start, but ashamed by the end.
I’m constantly having to fight off the urges and sensations, and I always will. The key is to not succumb to them and find ways to manage them. Fast-forward to now, and I’m as vigilant as ever to the tingling. I’m also in therapy specifically for trauma, and have actual methods to help cope. For example, The Wise Mind method. It goes like this: the reasonable mind is driven by logic, the emotional mind is driven by feelings, and a wise mind is a middle-ground between the two.
So, I have this urge to do something bad, right?
Using this method, I then will:
Consider the repercussions, and understand where the urge stems from.
Identify what feeling is stirring up the urge.
Find a healthy way to deal with the urge.
I wish I could say that I’m all better now, but it still happens. And it’s hard, and I tell myself, “You're not that person anymore.” It’s so uncomfortable. It’s radiating throughout my body. I take a deep breath and say, “Stop. Just stop. I’m always going to be that person.”