Venting I'm done with sh

[Lavínia]

Sh ended up becoming a huge part of me, to the point of becoming a hobby. You know when you're bored and you look for things to do? A text that wasn't that interesting before, a magazine in a waiting room, the hand of a clock, the details or asymmetries of a wall. Out of boredom, I burned myself, pierced myself, stretched my skin to its limit, cut myself, tried to worsen my hearing, broke my teeth, drank my blood, painted with my blood, and watched it fall.
At first, it was supposed to mean something. It was just supposed to be a mark, something for me to look at and understand and remember that I suffered at one point. It carried weight. My suffering was real. Then there was another mark. And then another. I could take my agony, give it shape, and look down on it. There was another, and a few more. I started doing it because I found it beautiful. Until my body became dirty, so dirty. It doesn't mean anything anymore.
It's a strange feeling, it shouldn't be normal. Planning, using bandages and tape, a collection of blades, rituals of how to break and store them. Watching the blood run into the water, concentrating on washing my hair, looking at the wound again, and seeing half my body covered in blood. The smell in the shower distracting my senses. My hands stained. Not knowing what to feel. The aftermath, caring for and monitoring the healing. Which clothes to wear, separating which ones might get stained with blood. Scabs. An itch that only grows. Marks, purple and pink keloids. Dirt. The metallic taste, strong and dull, like a robot trying to figure out what grease tastes like.

I think I'm still alive because of sh. But it's something that took a lot from me. It took away any sense of affection for myself. It took away the security of intimacy. I don't want to get close to anyone, much less be touched. It turned me into a doll, where my body is just a toy to me. Yesterday I did it again, and I promised it would be the last time. I'll do my best to make it happen. I think I'll die suffering more without it, and live more empty, but I don't want to smell my blood or skin burning anymore.

 

[beandigger404]

Sh ended up becoming a huge part of me, to the point of becoming a hobby. You know when you're bored and you look for things to do? A text that wasn't that interesting before, a magazine in a waiting room, the hand of a clock, the details or asymmetries of a wall. Out of boredom, I burned myself, pierced myself, stretched my skin to its limit, cut myself, tried to worsen my hearing, broke my teeth, drank my blood, painted with my blood, and watched it fall.
At first, it was supposed to mean something. It was just supposed to be a mark, something for me to look at and understand and remember that I suffered at one point. It carried weight. My suffering was real. Then there was another mark. And then another. I could take my agony, give it shape, and look down on it. There was another, and a few more. I started doing it because I found it beautiful. Until my body became dirty, so dirty. It doesn't mean anything anymore.
It's a strange feeling, it shouldn't be normal. Planning, using bandages and tape, a collection of blades, rituals of how to break and store them. Watching the blood run into the water, concentrating on washing my hair, looking at the wound again, and seeing half my body covered in blood. The smell in the shower distracting my senses. My hands stained. Not knowing what to feel. The aftermath, caring for and monitoring the healing. Which clothes to wear, separating which ones might get stained with blood. Scabs. An itch that only grows. Marks, purple and pink keloids. Dirt. The metallic taste, strong and dull, like a robot trying to figure out what grease tastes like.

I think I'm still alive because of sh. But it's something that took a lot from me. It took away any sense of affection for myself. It took away the security of intimacy. I don't want to get close to anyone, much less be touched. It turned me into a doll, where my body is just a toy to me. Yesterday I did it again, and I promised it would be the last time. I'll do my best to make it happen. I think I'll die suffering more without it, and live more empty, but I don't want to smell my blood or skin burning anymore.

I relate a lot with everything you've said here. Especially about having heavily ritualized self-harm behaviors and collecting. I've always felt very isolated for having such habits that aren't as common with self-harm, but reading this gave me some sense of comfort and feeling less like a freak. I don't think I'll ever have it in me anytime soon to throw away my bottles of rotting blood and flesh, but it brings me so much hope seeing someone else choose recovery as difficult as it is. Even though we are strangers on an anonymous internet forum, I wish the absolute best for your future and recovery, and I hope that someday I can find the strength to do the same