Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash
Sept. 30, 2017 The writer's job, says Jonathan Franzen, is to "say the unsayable." I intend to do that here. After pain plagued me for countless years, I started to like making myself hurt more. It's occurred to me that I must hate myself for digging my nails into my callused skin, but I do it nonetheless. For me (and 5% of adults, 17% of adolescents and 17-35% of college students in America), my sick is soothed by pain. No science can deconstruct this. It's illogical. It's emotional. And now it's honest. Most important: no one talks about it. It's taboo. So let me go there. I pick my skin. Until it bleeds. I dig my index nail into my outer thigh to form a callus. Then I dig my nails into my callused skin. My comfort, my callused thigh, is decidedly distinct from, say, a soft, pink blankie or my mother's handkerchief scented with Chanel No. 5. Self-destructive soothing is just another form of self-hatred. And yet, I. Can't. Stop. I walked the Los Angeles Marathon in 8.5 hours recently, as if I knew time was chasing my callused thighs and me. I am proud of that long, brisk walk nonetheless. The clock ticks, the sand runs through the hourglass. This is no time for secrets. I hope people who self-harm know they are not alone. Life hurts. We do our best, even it our best is yet to come.
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