Punishment

In the loneliness of my room, I fall to my knees. The lash is in my hand. It’s cold, and my naked body shivers. This will expiate my inexpiable guilt for a little while.

I bring my hand up and stare at what is to punish me. I bite my lip, doubting. No. No doubt is EVER allowed.

The lash falls over my shoulder, all the way down to my kidney area. I gasp, but in silence. I do it again, over the other naked, trembling shoulder.

This time, I cannot help but screaming. Immediately, I bite my lips so hard they bleed. Pain is healing. It is control, it is freedom, it is the only thing still making my life worth living for a while. I am so not allowed to complain.

I bring it back again and the excruciating pain that explodes in my flesh expands into millions of tiny thorns that pierce my nerves. I fall forward, a tiny droplet of blood tickling my back. It’s hard to, but I breathe, slowly at first. My entire body is shivering, trembling in pain like it would in pleasure.

I drop the lash, since my quivering fingers can no longer hold it, and I let my body collapse onto the bed, the soreness in my back reminding me of the punishment I just went through.

Bruises will form where nobody sees them. Not like anybody cares about it anyway.

Pain keeps me alive. It makes me worthy of the air I breathe, for a few hours at least. And if it allows me, it will also grant me sleep.

Yes. Pain is my lover, and my very best friend.

And with that happy thought, I roll off into slumber. 

Cutting

 I have been asked countless times what I feel when I cut myself.

I can't really explain it well. Maybe I should say that I, undoubtedly, experiment a certain relief, like a weight has been lifted off my chest and I can finally breathe. Blood purifies me. It hurts, but at the same time it's comforting.

When a child knows he's done something wrong, it is preferrable for him the punishment or the screams rather than the simple anguish of his parents' silence, of the disappointment he knows or senses they feel. Through punishment, guilt is vanished.

There is no punishment that can erase my guilt, but it certainly helps, As of late, I recurrently dream (and if I close my eyes while being awake, I can also see it) that I see, in front of a mirror, how I slowly remove my buttoned shirt, and, as I open the fastenings, hundreds of tiny, deep, red cuts are revealed in what was the skin of my chest and my womb, my breasts, my neck, my shoulders and my arms, all the way down to my hips. As I breathe in, the wounds open and close like small mouths in a scarlet shade, asking for who knows what, like starving chicks on a nest... and the nest is my body, off of which they feed.

This fantasy assails me constantly. Yet I know I cannot destroy my body without people noticing, andI don't want anyone to know, especially my father. Sometimes I come to think that, unconsciously, I want to be caught, that I want to be humiliated that way. Isn't shame what this is all about? It is out of shame that I scrub my body until my pores bleed. It is out of shame that I force myself to bathe in water so hot it's almost burning, like that could finally cleanse me, as if it would purify me. As I said before, purification is also a good deal of it.

There's also this thing about me being able to sleep better only after I cut myself. Honestly, it works better than any drug I've been prescripted. Sometimes, I take out my favorite badge's needle and hammer it into my legs because I feel my skin is dirty, that it is corrupted, that it is impure. It's as if bleeding could erase the burning prints of 'his' hands, 'his' abhorred hands, over this body I loathe.

I want to destroy my body so that 'he' can't posess it. I want to break free of this prison to which I have been confined. I want... I don't know... to receive a punishment so great it can purge my soul.

That's more or less how I feel.

I wonder

Sometimes  I come to wonder...
Why me?

The world around me is painted in much brighter shades and much darker shadows, much brighter lights, than it is around everyone else.
My love is much greater. My pain is much deeper.

Why me?

My feelings are extended through time and engraved in my heart so long they become unbearable...

Why me?

Those lights that make life so clear to me... they make the shadows unavoidably thicker, darker... they enrage against my soul, in which they dig their sharp, icy claws. They feed on my hot blood, which paints their blackness in such an intense deep red...

Why me?

Such is the borderline along which I walk. Such is the burden I must bear. 
Such is my sentence.

Why me?

Introduction

I am real.

That you mustn't forget.

Please.

You might think I'm not. You might try to tag me into a mould that will not exactly fit me.

Anorexic.
Emo.
Gothic.
Punk.
Cutter.
Self-harmer.
Obsessive-compulsive.
Victim.
Liar.
Attention whore.

I might be some of those. Others, I'm not at all. But I am exactly none.

I am an eighteen year old girl locked up in a tiny town, a horrible country, a conservative family. I am a teenager, I am liberal, I am an amateur writer, I am... whatever you might want to call me.

And I am a Borderline Personality Disorder sufferer.

I have been told a diary could help me, because there's no cure for my disease. You can't see it, and you might think it doesn't exist. But it does, oh god it does.

Later on, I may explain how I live my disorder like.

But this is just me.

Welcome to my life.