Somethings that people who don't will never know: A shallow cut across your shoulder feels like a sunburn when a backpack strap rubs across it, that scratchy almost-pain of tender skin. Another across you palm feels like the sticky slice of a paper cut. That when you make a new cut, you map it's location as carefully as any navigator. Will it show when I wear my favorite T-shirt? What about if I wear shorts? Or if my shirt rides up, will people be able to see lines as sharp and white as the lines on a coke-heads dresser? You start to get a feeling for how deep you can go before the scars will be noticeable, how much pressure to put on the blade, how quickly you should drag the sharpened edge across your skin. You learn where to cut. You make sure you have whatever you need to clean up, ointments and bandages at the ready. You take care of your razor-edges weapons. You learn all these things quickly, because if you don't you might bleed out if you cut too deep in the wrong place, or a serious infection might tell the whole world your secret, or if something tears the healing skin then the scar could become as visible as the Grand Fucking Canyon rending flesh apart. You learn very quickly who will look at you like some kind of freak. Those are the ones with the pristine skin, the ones who don't know how good it feels to open yourself up and feel that heated blood slide across your skin like affirmation that you are ALIVE, more alive than you have felt in years.
Then you get turned in by your roommate who came back from class early and as soon as the door opened you know you've made a huge fucking mistake, because they're booking it to the nurse's office and all of a sudden there's a very somber nurse in your doorway and you want to scream that there is nothing wrong with you and any concerns they have are invalid because you are so fucking careful it would shock them. You aren't looking to die, you just want to know that you're alive and that you have control over this body that suddenly seemed so foreign not even a year ago. Then comes the whirlwind of you mother crying as she drives you to the nearest psych ward, people asking you why you've marked your body in all these ways.
Years go by and you're healthy and cured and don't worry, I'm better now. Your memory is going and you're only twenty-five. People don't listen when you tell them that your greatest fear is coming true, that one day you'll look in the mirror and not recognize the face staring back at you. The doctor says it's just your ADD, because you don't concentrate enough to make memories. You know that's not true because you've done your job perfectly for almost a year and now you're forgetting to lock the safe and finish your closing paperwork. Things that once came easily to you slide out of your head like your mind is slicked with Crisco. Moon-silvered edges shine in your mind, blood turning black in the cold light. The pain is exquisite after so long, a warm blanket on a cold day. You turn your fingers into rulers, red angry hash marks that give you a checklist in your mind when you run your unmarked thumbs along them. Colors snap back into focus, and you can feel yourself breath air into non-foreign lungs. You feel your heartbeat for the first time in forever.
((Author's Note: I do not condone self-harm, especially since there are so many things that can go wrong, even if you are careful. Talk to someone who will listen and go find help. You are not worthless.))
