Lists

 I like lists. Organizing life into lists makes me feel a bit more... I don't know how to describe it. Settled, maybe? Either way, it is also a way to chronicle the things that happen to me, especially things that I can't otherwise bring up. I need t share things; I don't feel sane if there's something I can't share. So when there's some important life event in my life that I can't possibly share, I like to put it in a list. I've written numerous lists on this blog, and I've been making lists since I was little... But nothing this dark before. But I really want to write this down somewhere, because it is meaningful to me, it is important, I think about it all the time and it affects me and I will never stop thinking about it. It is important to who I am.

So this is my list of ways I have fantasied hurting myself (or, for a few, more than fantasies).

• I have dreamed of razors. This is probably the most obvious but one of the least frequent for me. It scares me too much. I have seen it far too often and it has traumatized me and I can't even get close to a razor because of it, much less try. I have seen craters and canyons in the walls of her skin and rivers so deep they have kissed the bone and in the darkest of moments I have envisioned those same things carved into my skin and it makes my skin quake. I have imagine gauging out my lips, scooping out my cheeks, tracing pools in the fat on my legs with the blades inside my disposable razors.... It is amazing how much skin we have.
• I have caressed my back while searching for scars, and have caught myself stroking my spinal cord fondly. I have dreamed of reaching in and ripping it out of my body. This, I could obviously not do. But I think of it.
• I've thought of drinking nail polish remover. About every time I use it. It would be quick and I'm guessing I would probably die. I don't usually think of ways to kill myself, only to cause minor injury (at least, that is most common). But if I were to ever be suicidal, I think I would probably drink nail polish remover. Jokes on me if it isn't lethal (though I doubt it isn't).
• Snow. Sticking my hands in snow was an easy transition when I got into burning during winter. Then my arms. I had always thought that the image of someone going into the snow without a coat to be romantic--I think somehow the image of keeping my limbs under the snow came off similarly. It never lasted long enough though, and I grew tired of it.
• Speaking of which: Burning. So many ways of burning. It started with boiling mugs of tea pressed into my skin. Then came my fear of lighters. Lighters plague my nightmares. Lighters haunt the halls of my home. Lighters keep my sneaking into the garage. It's become a sort of mania, burning. An obsession. Luckily, I have had no luck with lighters, since I have been blessed with an absolute inability to light them. Recently, my preference has been towards cigarettes. Everytime I smell smoke, I crave them. I want to smoke, but not just for the relaxing effects it is said to contain: I want the smoke to burn my eyes; I want the drags to burn my throat; I want the coughing and retching to burn my lungs; I want the ashes to burn my skin.
• Biting is another recent favorite that has been going on for months now. First it was just biting my knuckles to keep myself from thinking certain thoughts or actions... but then it became its own vice, and thus starting new fantasies. Like chewing my hands like gum. That tantalizing thought keeps me awake for hours. And by tantalizing I mean horrifying. And tantalizing.
• Pizza Cutter. Ha, I still laugh at that one. I friggin got triggered by a stupid pizza cutter. It was shiny and silver and not actually all that sharp but I thought it might be nice to roll it across the underside of my arm where the skin is thin. Goodness. I am stupid.
• Hot glue. This also has to do with burning. I'd like to get out my hot glue gun and make clear, burning trails over my arms and peel them off to expose red little rivers that sting. But I could only remove it once its dry. Not a long wait, but long enough when the substance is hot enough to melt. I wonder if my skin would melt as well. (I'm glad the hot glue gun is in a box, so that my laziness keeps me from grabbing it.)
• As of a few minutes ago: sticking my hand in the garbage disposal. 
• Have I mentioned boiling water? Burning is kind of a pattern.
• There was a time when I hit myself repeatedly with blunt objects. Such as can openers, and rocks of substantial weight.
• I have thin chains in the pocket of my jacket. Sometimes I wrap it around and around my fingers and hand, and then pull, very tightly. I also do this with ribbons. I hope that loss of circulation will make me feel better; I'm not quite sure where I came up with this logic.
• There is of course, scratching myself. Scratching my neck until it bleeds. Scratching my head until I feel potholes all over my skull. scratching into the scars until they enlarge, scratching into the open flesh, digging in. Thinking about this enough scares me tremendously.

 I think of little things, like pressing my finger to the rim of a can I opened and hoping for once that it's sharp; biting my tongue with my pointed teeth; thumbtacks and pins; even keeping my eyes open longer than I should to feel them sting. I have lost track of all the countless ideas that have entered my mind when it comes to hurting myself.

As I explained in the last entry, I often felt like I was afraid of everything. One can easily see anything. Practically anything found in ordinary life has some sort of value in terms of hurting me. How many days did I spend in Paula's house, putting my head through the loop in the shower head wire, where it hung just like I noose? I always thought of strangling myself with it, though I wasn't sure it was possible.

Now that I think about it, I have been having these fantasies since seventh grade: that's nearly five years. Five years of dreaming up different ways to damage myself. No wonder my mind is so messed up.

I am a psychological mess and it makes me feel miserable.