In the past few weeks I’ve had a lot of contact with a person who harms himself and finally I thought I should write about it.
I have begun to hurt myself when I was a child. I don’t recall the first time, but it was not long until hurting myself became normal to me. My father used to have razor blade in our bathroom’s cupboard and I stole some of them, time after time. I used them until they became blunt or at least too blunt to perform what I wanted to inflict on myself, then I dumped them. I always hid them away from my father, which of course was not really neccessary because he saw me naked. In the beginning, he just looked at the wounds and pressed his teeth together, not commenting on it, but later on he mocked me. When he was finished with me, he would say “lauf nur und schneid es dir rein” (run and cut it into you). I always did.
After a while, cutting myself became boring. It did not help any longer, so I opened up the wounds again or put something into them, like salt, sand , dust, even sperm or dishwater. I often got inflammations, but to be honest, I liked it. It hurt more and I even liked to open the pus-filled blisters. The only trouble was that hurting myself made me feel guilty, after the pressure had vanished. I don’t know why. I had no positive thinking of myself and my father would never teach me that my body was valuable. But anyway it made me feel guilty.
Self-harm became an addiction for me and I used to celebrate it. I had a small box in which I collected what I needed for self-harm, like razor blades, pins, shards and so on. It was my magic box, you know, like a spell to relieve the anger and the pressure. Just the look of it made me feel better (of course not really better, but better in a way). Self-harm was almost the only part of my life I could control. So when my father was done with me, I played my own violent games with me. To make it worse, I transferred what he did to what I did to myself. I began calling myself by all the dirty words he used for me, and I innermostly believe they were right. To be honest, until today I feel addressed by most of these terms. And to make it still worse, I got aroused by hurting myself physically and mentally. My therapist suggested I might have used masturbation as stress-relief, and I still do, but in connection with self-harm and self-injury, it was even more addictive. I know I’m hypersexual and that’s part of what my father did. If I’d run free, I’d masturbate all day long, I guess.
Later on, during therapeutic sessions, I was taught ways to relieve anger and frustration in other ways, but it did not work for me. It’s a nice and clean idea that scribbling on your body or solving crosswords could help avoiding self-injury, but it did not do for me. It was too soft. I was annoyed by my former therapist who I regarded as naive and stupid. I just kept hurting myself, and hurting felt good, but it still made me feel ashamed. On the other hand, I had the thought that hurting myself would prove me a strong man. I thought it was chic and cool that I could hurt myself and regarded my scars as a trophy.
I have never managed to get rid of my need for pain and humiliation, and it’s still deeply connected with my sexuality. As I have written before, I regard my 24/7 BDSM-relationship as a sort of self-injury. I know it’s deranged to savour this, but it helps me feeling myself and check on my life. I’m convinced that being allowed to live out my masochistic affection prevents me from hurting myself more than John ever would. And even being put into chastity is helpful, because I’m an excessive wanker. Or would be. You know, wanking is still a sort of stress-relief for me, but it’s unhealthy to do it 10 times a day and in every place, I suppose.
So, allowing John to control and hurt me prevents worse things from happening, and what he does to me is kind of therapeutic. I have not cut myself for some years now, but I could only stop it after he had made clear that he regards my body as his possession and would punish me for disregarding his possession. There are worse things than being hit or being put into chastity, for example not being noticed or talked to for some days.
I regard whatever he leaves on me as signs of love and I feel secure and loved when he hurts me. I know it’s twisted and probably insane, but no non-sadistic person could ever understand what I need to feel loved and secure. Being owned, being told what to do, being put in my place, being treated like a union of husband, slave and whore is the only way to cope with my life. I can’t do it any other way, and sometimes I really feel weak and bad about it, but then again I feel honoured and loved. John’s strong hand is my beacon. He hurts me so that I don’t need to hurt myself or do worst things to me. Love must hurt, or it is not love.
I hope it all does not sound too weird, and I hope it helps.