It makes very little sense to attack my own body. I don't mean to; I don't want to, but in great emotion it's too hard to separate emotions from thoughts from physical being. I can remember the first times of self abuse, pinching myself in kindergarten (the two girls I would interact with berated me from addressing them with "hey guys!" We were to glue foam onto a brick to create our family, and instead I failed to explain what I meant as they yelled at me for the whole activity how they were female, and I was a stupid cow), slapping myself until I could see how to solve a math problem, digging my nails into my skin while engaged in difficult conversations, punching myself black and blue when my mom chose my abusive oldest brother over me (As a male, he was more valuable than me. I am waiting for her reaching out to me in old age-- when he and my other brother are unable to care for her. I am the only one of her brood to self-support. My brothers rely on their dad instead of jobs). But in times of confusion, when I can't tell what I'm feeling, when my thoughts race too quickly for me to understand-- I end up hitting or scratching myself. I don't want to. I'm ugly enough, my skin looks like that of a pimply septuagenarian. The only thing recognizable is punishment. Hurt. Pain. Need to atone. I don't do it as often since living with my SO; the sounds and looks of abuse are too recognizable. I only just barely stop myself when I know he's home. The desire burns through me. Maybe I won't be so much as a failure if I go through punishment? Can I atone? Will abusing my body make up for the mistakes of my mind?