I used to do this weird thing.
I would get a rubber band and wrap it around my hand just above the thumb, and ping myself with it so hard that it would leave a red swelled mark that would stay for two or three days. I loved feeling the hot raised flesh under my fingers - I loved the control it gave me. I craved it. I remember asking my older brother for a rubber band after I snapped mine, and loving the confusion on his face when I refused to tell him what it was for. I remember walking to the cafeteria with H and ignoring her questions about the welts on my hand. I remember excusing myself to the bathroom every second class to do it, sneaking away at break and lunch and after school, sneaking one or two hits on the bus-ride home. I remember challenging myself - how many can I do at once? I remember drawing blood and panicking and idly wondering if there were plasters big enough to cover it. & after every hit, after every ping, I would feel the marks I made on my skin, and I relished the fact that I was strong enough to do this to myself. This was years ago, way before I dealt with all these secrets and this pain. I didn't even know what self-harm was at the time. I just liked doing it. I was ten.
Isn't that horrible?
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