#self harm awareness
When you tell people you self harm, and all they think is knife wrist and blood.
They don’t understand what happens behind the scenes.
They don’t realise the lengths that we go to just to hide it.
They don’t know how creative we are, when the need hits but there’s no knives around.
They don’t realise just how fucked up it actually is.
They say they want to know, yet they flinch, hesitate, show disgust,
At what is actually, the prettiest part of the whole damn show.
One of the things I tend to notice the most in sexy-sex photos of naked people are self harm scars, probably because it takes one to know one and I can’t help but notice. It used to make me bummed out to see them, but the more I stared over and over the more I realized I shouldn’t be sad about the scars; I should be happy because the wounds are all healed up.
Yours can heal up, too.
While I pride myself in promoting sex and body positivity and self love and all that goodness, I am often pretty reluctant to post anything related to my own history of self harm. I was lucky that I had the forethought to focus all of my efforts on one part of my body for years, so I only have one affected area to worry about rather than several.
So I’m super excited because this weekend I’m finally going to be able to start working on my coverup tattoo (a series of pinned and spread insects that have significant meaning to me) and soon my forearm will become more of a piece of art and less of a piece of bad memories.
To all of you who have struggled with self harm, I AM PROUD OF YOU FOR PERSEVERING. And to those of you still struggling, IT GETS BETTER. I promise. We are all a product of our experiences and all the bad stuff just makes you more beautiful.
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