Why did I stop cutting? I’m in bed, feeling really shitty, with the gross crying. You know, the kind where I get a hand towel because tissues are useless against these kind of tears and my nose is all snotty. Gross. And then the panic-y breaths start coming, which freaks me out and my heart begins to palpitate, freaking me out even more.
I’m grateful this is a rare situation now. When I was little, it came every night. Every night I’d cut myself to make it stop. When I get like this, it’s still my instinct to reach for whatever sharp is close by. But I don’t. Why not? It works. Brings me relief no benzo or substance has been able to match. So, why not?
Well, for one thing it’s messy, but I’m already gross and messy, so that doesn’t count. Then there’s the annoying task of having to hide the evidence – Especially difficult now that I’m living with a significant other, but it’s certainly not impossible.
In all honesty, I don’t even think it’s a big deal. It was reason for doctors to decide to send me inpatient when I was too young to have a say, but that’s no longer a concern. So, why not?
I think hard, and I remember. I remember my mom finding bloody tissues in my garbage and crying. I remember my boyfriend finding the shallow scrapes I’d made more recently and crying. It hurts the people I love. And that, in turn, hurts me. So I don’t.
and footnote: there’s way more behind and within self-harm than the blunt version I just told. I’m just getting out my current thoughts here.