In this essay, I examine how I have engaged in self harm in my past. Rather than the well-known habits of cutting or eating disorders, I cover the small but insidious ways that I punish myself physically.
When I was in kindergarten, I stapled my thumb just to see what it felt like. I didn’t cry when my mom pulled it out and I watched the blood bubble up from the minuscule circle.
I used to walk around barefoot on the jagged wood chips underneath my swing set and on scalding asphalt during the summer because I liked the idea that I was building up my pain tolerance.
I picked at a chemical burn on my forehead for several years, peeling off the healing skin until my fingers were covered in blood.
I was and am a self-harmer.
