Handle me with care….

I saw one of those annoying self care lists earlier. 

They irritate me because it’s beyond my comprehension that anyone believes a hot bath & some candles will stop the war in my head.

As I scrolled through the ridiculously naive advice, I realised I had my own version of self care. 

I was in fact, in the midst of a session. 

Self harm is my self care. 

It ticks all the boxes. 

It helps me feel calm 

in control

quiets my mind.
The ritual of setting up keeps me busy

Peeling back the foil to reveal a pristine blade

Arranging my towels 

Carefully selecting where I will begin

All of things offer distraction from my despair

panic 

loathing.

They provide comfort 

&

root my in the present moment. 
The bloods feels good; hot & slippery on my skin

The release gained from it flowing out it a weight lifted.

It’s so much better than crying.

That first strike that slides right into my flesh,

When I’m through the skin & my fat offers no restistance.

That wipes my thoughts clean 

It’s just me, 

my scalpel 

&

my blood. 
That’s what compassion is to me. 

It’s stainless steel disappearing into an open wound,

the instant when my cut starts to frighten me

But

I just keep going.