One in six teens inflict self-harm (TRIGGER WARNING: if you don’t want to see a photo of cuts on someone’s forearm, then don’t click this link), the Globe and Mail tells us today, and the sub-headline of that article is “Abusing yourself isn’t a suicidal or attention-seeking action, research suggests, but a coping mechanism.”

Well, duh. We’ve been trying to tell people that for years and years¹, but who bothers listening to self-injurers? Especially to teen self-injurers. We are not doing it to get attention.

The research, published in today’s edition of the Canadian Medical Association Journal, shows that 17.6 per cent of teenagers self-harm - a number that includes 21 per cent of girls and 8.7 per cent of boys.

This being the media, though, they have to warp the contents of the actual study, Nonsuicidal self-harm in youth: a population-based survey, so that “Ninety-six of 568 (16.9%) youth indicated that they had ever harmed themselves” from the original journal article, somehow becomes “17.6 per cent of teenagers self-harm” — present tense, plus an inexplicable 0.7 bonus. (Admittedly, I haven’t read the whole study yet because I was having computer problems earlier today and I am lazy, but I shall get around to it, and if there is an explanation that I missed for that extra 0.7, then sorry, my bad.) I suppose it’s mainly a case of people wanting shocking headlines, as the Globe and Mail article does continue as follows:

A total of 568 young people aged 14 to 21 were interviewed. Ninety-six of them said they had, at some point in their young lives, harmed themselves deliberately.

About one-third of the teenagers had done so only once, another third on two to three occasions and the other third had self-harmed repeatedly. On average, their mutilating actions began at age 15.

Much of the article is an interview with the study’s lead author, Dr. Mary Nixon, and it’s pretty good except for one comment that directly contradicts other things in the article:

“We’re trying to raise awareness that it’s not uncommon in young people and not related to mental health problems,” she said.

“It” being self-injury, of course. It’s such a weird quote that I’ve got to wonder if it’s a typo or a misunderstanding or something. I don’t think SI is always related to mental health problems, but I think it is the majority of the time.

The research shows a clear link between self-harm and mental health problems. Those who hurt themselves are more than twice as likely to suffer from depression, anxiety and impulse disorders.

It is not entirely clear why girls are more likely to self-harm than boys, but Dr. Nixon believes it is related to the fact that rates of depression soar at puberty and that girls not only mature earlier but react differently to stress.

See? Does not compute. SI is indeed related to mental health, although it’s very rarely suicidal or attention-seeking. (Never say never. All generalizations are bad. Tee hee.)

Dr. Nixon, a child and adolescent psychiatrist, said when teenagers harm themselves, it is often assumed they are doing so to get attention, but the behaviour is far more complex.

“A lot of these kids hide their cuts and burns. It’s not attention-seeking, it’s something else,” she said.

THANK YOU. I really appreciate somebody saying this and it being national news.

¹Although we don’t phrase it that way, because then it would sound like we were talking about masturbation.

It was a shock to hear the other day that Heath Ledger had died, seemingly due to an accidental or intentional overdose of pills. He was a talented actor, appeared to be a genuinely nice person, according to what his friends and neighbours said about him, and he had a two-year-old daughter he loved very much. I am also crass enough to mention that he was hot, although his death wouldn’t have been any less upsetting if he hadn’t been attractive.

It’s strange that when someone dies and nobody knows whether it’s suicide or an accident, most people’s immediate response is, I sure hope it wasn’t suicide. I’m not sure it’s any less sad if someone who definitely doesn’t want to die suddenly winds up dead. It’s easy enough to think of reasons behind this knee-jerk reaction, though, and here are a few:

• Suicide is considered a major taboo.
• It’s very uncomfortable to think of someone who is suffering and unhappy before they die, and more pleasant to think of them as having had a pleasant and rosy life up until their death.
• People feel that it’s something someone should have seen coming and been able to stop, unlike a freak accident that might have been less easy to predict.
• In a case like this, where it’s somebody who Had It All, you know that this guy had talent, money, fame, good looks, and a child he cared about, and still might have been depressed enough to purposely end his life, and you wonder what the hell kind of chance any of the rest of us have of being okay.

Anyway, suicide or accident, it’s still a tragedy.

Wasted: A Memoir of Anorexia and Bulimia by Marya Hornbacher is one of my favourite books. It’s probably my favourite memoir of all time. My eating disorder has never been that serious, but I can relate to the author eerily well. It was often as if I was reading about what was going on inside my own head, only expressed much more eloquently than I could hope to do so myself. I’m a good writer, not that it’s evident on this blog… but Marya Hornbacher is an amazing writer, and I am in awe of her. The book is an honest an insightful portrayal of illness, although I wish she had written about her actual recovery. Even more than that, I’ve often wished that someone would write a book about manic depression that was just like Wasted.

So I was pretty excited when I was reading the People article about “Britney’s mental illness” (no, I’m not even going to go there right now) and there was a sidebar about Hornbacher’s upcoming memoir, Madness: A Bipolar Life. There are some very annoying annoying things in the book description, but at least I know Hornbacher didn’t write the jacket copy herself:

At age twenty-four, Hornbacher was diagnosed with Type 1 rapid-cycle bipolar, the most severe form of bipolar disease there is.

Ugh. Yeah, I’m also rapid-cycling bipolar I, and so what? Do not brag about how your manic depression’s penis is bigger than other people’s, okay? This is not something where you can just whip out a tape measure and settle the matter once and for all, and even if you could, it would be pointless. There are sucktastic things about all flavours of bipolar disorder, and mental illness one-upmanship is really tacky and helps nobody.

Also, Hornbacher’s fiercely self-aware portrait of her own bipolar as early as age four will powerfully change the current debate on whether bipolar in children exists.

This is another one of those don’t-even-go-there things that is probably unfair of me to comment on until I’ve read the actual book.

I can’t say I like the title much, either, but I’m still dying to read the book. Probably there will be parts that will annoy me, and there will be parts that I love, like this passage from Wasted:

People who’ve Been to Hell and Back develop a certain sort of self-righteousness. There is a tendency to say: I have an addictive personality, I am terribly sensitive, I’m touched with fire, I have Scars. There is a self-perpetuating belief that one simply cannot help it, and this is very dangerous. It becomes an identity in and of itself. It becomes its own religion, and you wait for salvation, and you wait, and wait, and wait, and do not save yourself.

Or this part, where she falls down and is too weak from starvation to get up:

Halfway home I began to run, a faltering, stumbling run, eyelashes fluttering with snowflakes, face numb, hair falling into my face with the weight of wet snow. I slipped and fell and could not get up. I sat there in a heap in front of the vice president’s mansion. I, up-and-coming young journalist, A student, maniac, starving artist, invisible basket case, me. I cried with an impotent fury at my legs for refusing to stand when I told them to and thought of my cousin Brian as my hands, pure white, indiscernible in the white snow, scrabbled about trying to collect the contents of my bags which had spilled. I thought of my brilliant and wonderful cousin, dear friend and lifelong confidant, who’d been in a wheelchair since he was small. I thought of how he must feel every day, legs refusing to work, through no fault of his own, through some miserable joke of God, and I thought: This is your own fucking fault. Get up. GET UP. I hated myself with a pure and fierce energy and I wished myself dead.

I don’t hate myself anymore. It’s been a long time since I did. But that excerpt says everything you need to know about the way I felt back when I did hate myself.

Lately I am trying very hard not to do inappropriate things or to overshare, which is why I haven’t been posting. The Internet is not a good place for oversharing. Hello, world, here are all the stupid things that are going on in my head lately, all the stupid things I am trying so hard not to say and do. Nope, not gonna happen.

My current state of mind is the result of recent personal issues. They might not be the sole cause of it, but they’re definitely the main cause. I am trying to deal with these issues in a healthy way, instead of drinking too much, not sleeping enough, spending too much money, and sending people inappropriate emails. So far, I am only being mildly successful at this, but I’m trying.