I’ve been holding this in for a while. I don’t know if this is the right place to say it, but I need to get it out. I’ve hurt myself. Not just once. Not just one way. And I’m tired of people thinking self-harm is just “cutting.” It’s not. It’s a whole mess of rituals, impulses, and containment battles.

Here’s what I’ve done. Not to glorify it. Just to name it.

Impact-based stuff:

- Slapped myself.

- Punched walls, bedframes.

- Hit my head against things.

It’s like trying to knock the noise out of my skull. Like if I hit hard enough, maybe the thoughts will stop.

Sharp or piercing stuff:

- Scratched my skin until it burned.

- Bit my arm—never broke skin, but it was close.

- Tried using a push pin, but my body wouldn’t let me go through.

- Drew red lines on myself with pencils.

- Scratched with pens.

- Used scissors once—just a faint red mark, no blood.

- Used the blade from a pencil sharpener. That one bled. I didn’t expect it to be that sharp.

Symbolic stuff:

- Snapped a bracelet against my wrist until it left welts.

Thoughts I haven’t acted on:

- I’ve thought about using a knife. I haven’t. Not because I didn’t want to—but because I knew someone would notice it missing. That awareness stopped me. That’s how containment works sometimes.

That’s eleven. Eleven ways I’ve tried to externalize what I couldn’t say. Some didn’t bleed. Some did. Some were about leaving a mark. Some were about feeling anything. And yeah, some were stupid. But they were real. And they were mine.

I’m not proud of this. I’m not trying to make it poetic. I just want people to understand that self-harm isn’t always dramatic. It’s quiet. It’s layered. It’s sometimes hidden in things that look normal—like drawing, or snapping a bracelet, or holding a pencil too hard.

I’m still here. I’m still trying. And if you’re reading this and you’ve done any of these things too—you’re not alone.