On the Topic of Self-Harm

                                                 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.