June last year was hellish, though I tried, where I could, to write entertainingly on here. During that time, I found an image on the internet that corresponded with eerie exactitude to the feelings raging, roiling and retching inside me: It showed a young woman, naked, head down, sliding down the bloodied wall against which she had smashed her own body.
I knew how she felt. For the first time, I understood that level of self-destruction; understood the door which voicelessness and powerlessness opens – or can do – to acts of extreme self-harm.
In an act which was, I can now see, unconsciously a cry for help, I posted this stark image on a post. Would I have wounded myself so grievously? Ultimately, I can never be certain – but I suspect not: I think I have a strong life force within which counteracts even the most desperate and…
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