I am here because I found the site mentioned many times in A Bright Red Scream, Self-Mutilation and the Language of Pain by Marilee Strong.

I would speak but I don’t know what to say. I injure myself. When I don’t, I don’t feel anything but a fog over my eyes. Few know, and they are all helpless and disgusted and angry. So I don’t talk about it.

I am alone and feel dead most of the time. When I can be alone and injure I feel alive. Not contented but breathing. I am supposedly smart, Dean’s List student with a smattering of impressed professors in my wake. I try and be proud but I can’t get past the idea that their courses must have been too easy or they messed up my marks somehow.

People don’t talk to me. But then, I stare more than I speak. When they do speak to me it is to acquire assistance with an assignment or complain about something. My family doesn’t talk to me and wouldn’t care about any of this if they knew.

I think I want people to care. But I don’t want them to feel bad or try and help. I don’t want to ask that of them.

I stop for a few months every year or so. Less stress then? I don’t know. I just don’t and then later remember and my heart skips.

I have no honest empathy for the common individual. I care only for what is mine. I have been created by neglect, hatred and pain inflicted from an early age. I have removed the emotional context of daily life in order to properly behave in the public eye. I am well liked, admired and idolized for being a person I have never actually been. I disguise my absence of response and illogical thought by feigning it. I hold no trust or faith in people whatsoever, and thus I am never let down.

I am not hiding my humanity. I injure it away and dispose of it.