On Mutiliation

I wish I had the *ability* to write. Not to set forth facts on paper or to describe what's happening right now or what happened in the past, but to make characters, setting, plot, etc. But it's not my talent. I'm constrained by what I know and what I feel and ONLY those things.


Anyway, I've been entertaining interesting thoughts lately. I've been thinking about people who self-injure and what in means in the context of being batshit crazy.

I've always wondered why I don't--and have never--done it. I mean, I get why people do it, and I understand why it's attractive. Cutting, especially. Not in the suicidal sense. There's just something visceral about seeing your own blood well up and flow out of you. I've always thought that.

Don't get me wrong, there are times I've thought of doing it. It happens a lot when I'm stressed or really, really unhappy. I never get any farther than thinking, mind you. I think it's because the mental images my mind's eye conjures up is enough to satisfy that part of me.

It'd have to be on the soft skin of your body, the parts that seem so innocent and defenseless: the insides of your arms, the insides of your thighs, your breasts, underneath your chin, even, if you didn't mind the fact that a slip would probably result in the entirety of your life's blood gushing forth like it's been shot out of a fire hose. It'd have to be a brand-new razor blade. Were I to do this, I'd use a new one every time. I imagine several small, horizontal slices--the blade would be so sharp that it wouldn't even count as cuts--running parallel to one another. Carving great big chunks of flesh out of my skin that leave ugly scars or making suicidal gestures with my cutting holds no appeal to me.

The razor blade would be so sharp that it'd take awhile for the pain to register, if it even did. You see, I don't have much stomach for inflicting pain on myself. I have calcium deposits on my face that need to be cut out, but I don't have anything sharp enough to do it without hurting like a bitch. So there they remain.

For some, it is about pain. For me, it wouldn't be. It'd just be to see the pale, vulnerable flesh cleave and then the rivulets of blood. The sight of it would remind me that there really is a person, something human, there, rather just an anguished mind.

Maybe if you looked close enough, you could see a teeny-tiny bit of your soul eke out and go up to be with its Creator.


Yes, I realize it's fucked up to have those thoughts. But, again, my stomach for personal injury is very low, so there's not much danger of me ever self-inflicting that kind of shit. Also, I don't have any razor blades. So calm down.


In light of that, though, I'm convinced that my interest in BDSM/kink is not entirely healthy. Particularly in the ways that I play when I get on a masochistic kick. I'm not really a spank me and then put your dick in my ass kind of girl. Never was. But in my old age, I find myself moving farther and farther away from "conventional" kink. Somehow, I find it too clinical, too far detached, too distant from real human emotion. I need something more immediate, more intimate, and more brutal than cruel. You do know the difference, yes?

Then, there's the emotionally masochistic side of me that aches from the abuses heaped on me, but still goes back to lick the hand that broke me, to beg for more. I hate it, but I need it, more than I even need to breathe sometimes.

But these are the things that chain the inner demons. If they don't quiet the screaming inside, they at least drown it out for awhile. There's calm after the storm, at least for a little while.


So why should I do this myself when others do it to me so much better? *Sad smile*