thinking about it, i'm stunned that i don't hurt myself more. it's something that takes up a lot of space in my mind. when i finally get home and am alone i always mimic shooting myself or cutting my throat, when i get mad i want to dig my fingernails into my forehead and tear my face off. i ball my fist and pull it back, ready to bruise my thigh, but i don't.
i've hurt myself in the past, but not much. not nearly as much as its presence in my thoughts suggest. i've liked hurting myself, and the only regret i have is the permanent reminder my chosen method left.
it's all a bad habit, a reflections of my own limitations of understanding and expression. my short temper causes this explosive destructive impulse and i just want to break something, myself, because of it. and i catch myself and say no, that's now how you deal with this, you gotta breathe and let it go. that's now how you deal with anger. no, that's not how you deal with disliking yourself. no, that's not the right way to vent.
i just don't understand how i work. i don't know my own emotions. my thoughts. i feel, i react, like an alien in my own body. even now i don't know really why i react like this.
i've known my whole life about these limitations. i just don't know how to get around them. or live with them. i wonder how long i'll be this way.