Yesterday I filed, painted and moisturised my nails/hands in an attempt to be kind to myself.
Today I bought nice smelling shower wash (as in, pretty, not just functional like my current one). It took me nearly 20mins to pick one that was ‘kind enough’ but not too luxurious or otherwise inappropriate, but I did manage to pick. I figured that seeing as I already wash myself in the shower anyway, it’s only a tiny baby step to using something a bit more ‘kind’.
Tonight, I’m waiting for the blood to stop seeping and pooling around the tiny but deep cuts on my wrists, so that I can disinfect them and then sleep before the calm runs out and the sting sets in.
I so needed the calming effect the cutting has. I needed the ritual, the buying the blade, unscrewing it, washing it, washing my skin, pulling taunt, then pressing and pulling until I feel the perfect combination of pain and cold that tells me it will blossom bright red as soon as I release my skin. I release, and there is it. I need the pattern and the colour and the shine of my blood, but I also need the opportunity to look after myself; to be able to make something better, in a world where I’m otherwise useless. I need the inaudible slurp as the tissue drinks up the pools over and over until there is more red than white and I’m wondering how to destroy the evidence before the cleaner comes tomorrow.
My poor body. I am not sure this is what T meant.