Confessions of a chronic cutter
Talking about cutting today in therapy, and guiltily comparing someone else's surface scratching to what I view as like, "successful," more extreme cutting for me, made me think of the ways that I kind of romanticize self-harm. Only for myself though. I don't wish others to harm themselves. At times I view self-destruction and damage as an almost beautiful thing. I describe gaping gashes and streaming blood in romantic words in my head, with infatuation, calling up the magical feeling of release and relief. I think of it as something special and perfect. Intimate. I daydream about different ways to cause more severe physical harm, like the times I decided to burn my arm with a metal knife heated against the stove, and pressed it, scorching my skin. That was an achievement in my world. Something I feel like I should do again, that I've been slacking. I need to push further to feel the euphoria and fulfillment. Danger is in my body. It feels so inticing. It calls t