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

 

[CumbriaCTB]

I've been cut-free for just over a week now (not intentional, I know it's not the right time in my life to try quitting, sometimes I just lose interest in it temporarily) and my bottom lip split open this morning - the climate here's been very dry recently - and it remind me why it's a very bad idea for me personally to go more than a week without cutting. I knew as soon as my lip burst because I was immediately hit with that lovely coppery smell and that sweet-but-slightly-metallic taste (my iron levels are back up to normal-ish, I guess?) and I've been in agony for the whole day now because I too am a blood-drinker. I'm not intentionally fighting the urge - I know what happens when I try to fight it - I just... don't have the energy to cut myself, the effort spent slicing and then cleaning up afterwards just seems too much, even though I know that my current lethargy is essentially a withdrawal symptom.

At this rate, I'm probably going to have to power through the fatigue and get to slicing myself up ASAP - making sure I get a nice few gulps of this rich, iron-y blood - lest I want to slowly wither away in bed without the desire to even eat. It's ironic how "putting the effort in and doing what's best for myself" became forcing myself to cut my own skin open even when I really can't be bothered doing it. I know I'll be happier after I've bled a bit but even reaching for a blade feels like running a marathon right now...