People were always asking why. Did it make me feel numb? Feel real? Did it punish me, or was it attention seeking? No matter what reason they offered, I always agreed. I didn't have a clue what drove me on.
But in memory, it is the image, the powerful picture...
I, and everyone else, could SEE how much I was hurting. I thought that they didn't understand, that they wouldn't believe unless I showed them -
THIS IS MY PAIN
THIS IS HOW I FEEL.
I couldn't cry, but sometimes I imagined the blood running down my arms were my tears. There was the feeling of strength, of control, of some perverse power that I still don't understand....
AND THERE WAS HATE.
Pure, black hatred of this self that had failed at everything. Poisonous hate at this beast of evil, of weakness; this pathetic being I was. Not strong enough to kill myself. Too alive. Too driven by my own rage. Tearing myself apart, bit by bit.