This is why I self harm

You know how sometimes, movies show a dam bursting, destroying whatever lies below? That’s what it’s like, to cut your skin. A dam slowly filling with water, until it bursts.

The year is 2010. I’m sat in English class, and it must have been warm because the sleeves of my school jumper were rolled up past my elbows.

This shouldn’t have mattered, but it did to me. I’d forgotten about the prominence of the angry red cuts slicing through the smooth porcelain of my inner arm, now flashing like a warning beacon to everyone around me. I usually wouldn’t forget. Usually, I was careful. I made sure my sleeves were pulled down, hiding any evidence of the pain I inflicted upon myself.

There was no way I could completely forget the cuts were there. They were a constant presence in my subconscious, part of a game of hide and seek I played against the world. But I must have had a momentary lapse in judgment. It’s easy to forget how those familiar marks must look so much more alarming when you’re not used to them littering your skin.

My best friend must have noticed, because she asked me what they were. I don’t remember exactly what she said but I remember her expression, a cocktail of anger and concern, and the way she physically pointed her finger towards me from a few rows away. I also know that it must have been loud enough for our classmates to hear; because I can still feel the hot burning shame that prickled over my body. I was paralyzed with panic as my brain scrambled for a feasible excuse to explain away the cuts. Anything to…