A cut above the rest

This is a creative writing diary entry recording an experience which I still remember very clearly. I am sure as you read you will realise what I did:

Its dark, around 6.45 pm and the night air is frosty. I don't remember the date, but I'm 17. I'm not really dressed for how cold the weather is, and the damp of the ground is rising through the heavy cord fabric of my jeans. I've tucked my fingers into my Deftones hoodie. It's my favourite, it smells like my boyfriend and the left sleeve is sticking uncomfortably to my arm. It Stings.

I'm nearly at the bottom of the street, skimming my fingers along the railings as I walk down the footpath. I can still hear the raised voices at home ringing in my head. If I reached out, I think I could touch the tensions with my freezing fingers.

I'm angry. I'm empty (in every sense of the word). I'm useless. Beyond crying there is only one way to get out the screaming inside my head. Normally I would have something in my pocket, an emergency "break glass" (excuse the pun) option. But this time my pockets are empty.

Panic bubbles in my stomach, and fizzes up towards my chest and my breathing quickens and my palms feel clammy and I can't meet them like this because they can't see how out of control I am. House key no Earring no even the clasp on my purse no.

The yellow of the streetlamp is reflected by the wet tarmac of the footpath. I'm crouching now, my eyes are scanning desperately for the glint of a reflection.

I see it.

Several pieces of green shimmer in the light overhead. The edges rip at my fingertips and I wince as I peel back my sleeve, unsticking the fabric. I already know the right angle depth and force I need so as not to leave a permanent reminder, but enough to pacify the screaming in my head.

A wave of shame and disgust flows over the pain like the bursting of a dam. Paranoia at what someone would say if they saw this. I feel disgusted at what I've just done, staring down at the remaining green gems glimmering in the sediment of the puddle in front of me.

I pull down my sleeve, and keep walking, and I don't feel better.

This experience was a good few years ago now, and I am glad to say that it has been almost a year and a half since I have self harmed. And for this I feel very proud of myself.