Before: I feel dissaociated, of course. I feel Dead. I don’t feel like I should, and I know that I shouldn’t be feeling this way either. I feel alone, I feel sad, angry, moody, depressed, unhappy, upset, all the negative feelings put into one anxious pouch of emotion. I honestly want to commit the crime of ultimate self-hatred.
During: Still dissaociated. I don’t feel the pain. Maybe a slight stinging, not enough to cry about, usually the emotional pain is the overbearing part of it all. I never cry when I abuse though, never. I watch the liquid pain travel down my skin, and it relaxes me, watching it fall. Like it’s escaping with me, and it’s happy too. It needs me, it wants me, it loves me, it adores me. Everything is perfect in that moment. I don’t feel anything at all, I just see beauty. pure beauty. I’m not alone anymore.
After: I’m usually almost fully functional with reality. I clean up my beautiful wounds, and hide my tools. During, it’s one of those moments where you don’t have to worry about a damn thing, not a single fucking thing, and it’s the greatest gift I could ever give to myself.
Person [female, age 17]
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