It just feels better. That's the only way I can explain it. I just feel better when I'm done. I feel human again.
People have all sorts of reasons why they self-harm. I have mine. Rather, I've had mine, as they've changed a couple of times. The first time, I was aiming for death. I was too young, too confused to be able to process and live through what was going on in my life (or so I thought). That's the first self-inflicted scar I have, and it's the one that's most faded. But it's still there. It reminds me every day of how far I've come.
After that first try, it took several years for my habit to manifest. I became aware of the dark and dangerous alley in which self-mutilation resides. I learned about how some people used it as an escape, a plea for help or attention, a way to feel their mental or emotional pain in a physical way. I learned about cutting, scratching, and burning.
The first time I ever did it myself I don't even remember what I used. But I remember where I was. In fact, I remember such great detail, what I used is the only blank. I was sitting on the tile floor of my bedroom, leaning against a frameless mattress that had a white-with-tiny-red-roses sheet. My right ankle was crossed over my left thigh and I was cutting across my ankle, from the shin to the tendon. I was wearing pajama pants so that if I felt footsteps I could cover myself quickly. I had been cleaning my room. I watched as my blood seeped from my skin. I scratched a little more, and a little more. Gently, always very gently. Eventually I had a beautiful straight red line across my ankle, and a paper towel dabbed bright red. I took a deep breath and smiled. I felt better.
Shortly after that first try, I tripped and fell or something, twisted my ankle and my mother had taken me to the hospital. After removing my clothes and socks, the doctor examined my legs. Raising an eyebrow he asked, "What's this?" Of course, I said it was a cat scratch. He nodded slightly and left the exam room. My mother looked at me disappointed, "He knows that's not a cat scratch." I didn't know what to say. I didn't hear anything about it thereafter.
I have since come up with other ways to explain away my injuries. I am quite accident-prone by nature, it's not a far cry for me to have tripped over something at any given moment. I have worked at places where it is very easy to get bumps, cuts, and bruises.
A week ago I hurt myself, alone, for the first time in a very long time. Did it without thinking. I took a pocketknife and was just scratching at my skin. Not cutting, just scratching over and over and over. It's taken a few days for me to be able to peel it again; it's not a scab I'm used to. But after a while, here I am looking at this wide gouge in the side of my arm. This will not heal pretty. But it felt so much better afterwards. I took a breath and just felt better.
People have all sorts of reasons why they self-harm. I have mine. Rather, I've had mine, as they've changed a couple of times. The first time, I was aiming for death. I was too young, too confused to be able to process and live through what was going on in my life (or so I thought). That's the first self-inflicted scar I have, and it's the one that's most faded. But it's still there. It reminds me every day of how far I've come.
After that first try, it took several years for my habit to manifest. I became aware of the dark and dangerous alley in which self-mutilation resides. I learned about how some people used it as an escape, a plea for help or attention, a way to feel their mental or emotional pain in a physical way. I learned about cutting, scratching, and burning.
The first time I ever did it myself I don't even remember what I used. But I remember where I was. In fact, I remember such great detail, what I used is the only blank. I was sitting on the tile floor of my bedroom, leaning against a frameless mattress that had a white-with-tiny-red-roses sheet. My right ankle was crossed over my left thigh and I was cutting across my ankle, from the shin to the tendon. I was wearing pajama pants so that if I felt footsteps I could cover myself quickly. I had been cleaning my room. I watched as my blood seeped from my skin. I scratched a little more, and a little more. Gently, always very gently. Eventually I had a beautiful straight red line across my ankle, and a paper towel dabbed bright red. I took a deep breath and smiled. I felt better.
Shortly after that first try, I tripped and fell or something, twisted my ankle and my mother had taken me to the hospital. After removing my clothes and socks, the doctor examined my legs. Raising an eyebrow he asked, "What's this?" Of course, I said it was a cat scratch. He nodded slightly and left the exam room. My mother looked at me disappointed, "He knows that's not a cat scratch." I didn't know what to say. I didn't hear anything about it thereafter.
I have since come up with other ways to explain away my injuries. I am quite accident-prone by nature, it's not a far cry for me to have tripped over something at any given moment. I have worked at places where it is very easy to get bumps, cuts, and bruises.
A week ago I hurt myself, alone, for the first time in a very long time. Did it without thinking. I took a pocketknife and was just scratching at my skin. Not cutting, just scratching over and over and over. It's taken a few days for me to be able to peel it again; it's not a scab I'm used to. But after a while, here I am looking at this wide gouge in the side of my arm. This will not heal pretty. But it felt so much better afterwards. I took a breath and just felt better.
