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Inside the Mind of Self-Injury This is what it's like inside the mind of a self-injurer. Let me start by saying we aren't scary. We're scared. We aren't freaks; we just don't know how to deal with a freakish world. If you want to understand some, just a little, read on. Please don't judge, because I'm bearing my soul, what's left of it. Come to think of it, judge all you want; I really don't care anymore. Just proceed with caution: emotions crossing. Sadness can sparkle. It can glisten and glimmer like a thousand stars or a million far-away galaxies or even my best friend's sleek black pageant dress. Sadness can be soft. It can wrap you in velvet, coddle you in cotton wool, and caress your hair with its soft hand, making you a willing part of it. Sadness can chafe. It can attack like a wild tiger or a fierce husband, slapping you, clawing your face and your soul. And you stagger back against the wall and cry, pleading for it to stop, and clutching the shallow cuts as they bleed and ache. Sadness can scorch you. Like a thousand suns, it will dry every tear, every particle of moisture and leave you with a hard, dry sob. The skin of your soul becomes baked and hardened, and you no longer know or care what others say, for hurt is within, clawing to get out, and the world and all its frights and stresses are outside, clawing to get in; and in between are you and your pitiful arms, hands, legs, even face, trying desperately to stop them, to keep them from meeting, and you are torn to bits. Sadness can make you turn on yourself. You are the wrongdoer, the minister of evil. You are the bad guy, the villain. You are the mistress of darkness and instigator of all that is bad. And in your heart (or maybe your head), you know that's not true, but it doesn't really matter, because it's what you feel, what you know. It's a universal truth, to be accepted if not believed. And you carry out the punishment with an ancient, blood-thirsty remorse. And you hate it, and you hate yourself, and you hate that it can never really stop, never really end. And you know that either you won't anymore and you'll ache horribly inside and go forever insane from the temptation, or you'll keep on, and one day, maybe soon, you'll find yourself sitting on the floor in our room, balled up, clutching your wrist, and murmuring sullenly, "I cut too deep." And either way it really sucks. Does this frighten you? It should. It frightens me, and I live it every day. The moral of the story is this: take it from someone who knows, who's been there, who is there as we speak, please don't si. Because whether it's on your arms or in your head, once you start, you can't ever stop. Thank you. -brels |