Sep 2018
I was 11 years old when I first self harmed.
11 years old and punishing myself for just being me.
In the years that followed
I forgot what it was like to feel okay inside my own body.
I was always trying to cut it open
As if all the fat and ugly would pour out of it and down the plug hole in my shower.
But soon,
It became more than just hating myself.
Somehow, it turned into an addiction...
A routine.
I would sit there with a deadpan face
And stare into space
As I sliced my skin open and felt that familiar sting
Sometimes, I would have so much time but not enough skin on my hips and thighs
So I would venture elsewhere
Knees, calves, feet, arms, wrists, stomach.
Until my favourite outfit was now the one I couldn’t wear anymore.
Self harm was my secret.
The one thing that could help me focus my mind on something other than the thoughts that consumed it every second of every day
But suddenly,
It wasn’t just my thing anymore.
Other people were making friends with my secret.
They were making friends with it and parading round school with it and showing everyone they knew
Claiming ownership and collecting all the donations of sympathy that were thrown at the scars on their wrists
And I felt betrayed.
That was my secret first and they had stolen it from me and turned it into a topic to be discussed and a tourist attraction that everyone was dying to see.
It was no longer my secret and me
It was my secret and the world’s philocaly
And just me
Just me stood with the rest of the world
In awe of other people’s scars
When once I had been in awe of my own
All the while I wore the long sleeves and never went to the beach
And always got changed in the toilets for PE
And I tried to remind myself
That my secret was still my own and it was safer with me
Than it was feeding the world’s intrigue.
11 years old and punishing myself for just being me.
In the years that followed
I forgot what it was like to feel okay inside my own body.
I was always trying to cut it open
As if all the fat and ugly would pour out of it and down the plug hole in my shower.
But soon,
It became more than just hating myself.
Somehow, it turned into an addiction...
A routine.
I would sit there with a deadpan face
And stare into space
As I sliced my skin open and felt that familiar sting
Sometimes, I would have so much time but not enough skin on my hips and thighs
So I would venture elsewhere
Knees, calves, feet, arms, wrists, stomach.
Until my favourite outfit was now the one I couldn’t wear anymore.
Self harm was my secret.
The one thing that could help me focus my mind on something other than the thoughts that consumed it every second of every day
But suddenly,
It wasn’t just my thing anymore.
Other people were making friends with my secret.
They were making friends with it and parading round school with it and showing everyone they knew
Claiming ownership and collecting all the donations of sympathy that were thrown at the scars on their wrists
And I felt betrayed.
That was my secret first and they had stolen it from me and turned it into a topic to be discussed and a tourist attraction that everyone was dying to see.
It was no longer my secret and me
It was my secret and the world’s philocaly
And just me
Just me stood with the rest of the world
In awe of other people’s scars
When once I had been in awe of my own
All the while I wore the long sleeves and never went to the beach
And always got changed in the toilets for PE
And I tried to remind myself
That my secret was still my own and it was safer with me
Than it was feeding the world’s intrigue.
