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I am a woman, mother, professional and entrepreneur. Who self harms. Only a handful of people know about my self harming, and most of them only know in their professional capacity. They know it takes the form of cutting my arm with a knife. Nowadays. But I don't remember a time when I did not harm myself.

It has always been my limbs - whether or not that has any significance, I don't know. When I was 4 or 5, I used to pick at cuts and scabs I had and try to hide them from my mum. When I didn't have any cuts, I remember being extremely agitated. I learned that I got some relief from putting my hands and arms into a sink full of scalding water and holding them there until the sting went away. By the time I was about 7 or 8, I was making cuts on my arms and legs by scratching the same area over and over until it burned. I learned that would form a light scab within 2 or 3 days, and would be a great "picker" if I waited another 2 or 3 days after that. That cut would then keep me going for maybe a month.

I was in my 20s before I plucked up the courage to cut myself using a knife. And I will never forget the rush. All the pain, frustration, anger and self-loathing that coursed about inside me, rendering me unable to think straight about anything, could escape through the openings I made with my knife. And I could think again. And get on with my work. And sleep. And breathe. Function. It was an indescribable relief.

Of course I figured this was not a beneficial course of behaviour - I'm smarter than you might be thinking thus far! I was advised in therapy to let my feelings etc out my mouth - a ready made hole I apparently already have for that purpose. I went over 2 years without cutting myself. Then, amid a very difficult and turbulent relationship break-up, I started again. I have now made it 2 or 3 months. But yet I find that whenever my depression is really black, or I am feeling overwhelmed with life, or I need someone to talk to, I am reaching for the very thing that caused me so much damage in the past. To my great surprise, it is not the small, black-handled knife I keep at the back of the cutlery drawer.

Instead, my new weapon of choice is the man I broke up with. The same man who, unbeknown to me for about 18 months, kept in regular contact with prostitutes throughout the time we were together. Made arrangements to meet them. Organised three-somes. Texted them regularly throughout his working day. Used online pornography and masturbation "excessively" (his

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