Self Injury Quotes

A scar nobly got is a good livery of honor.

I’ve never hit anybody in my life. I never would, and the only way I could make a point was by hurting myself…It’s something I’ve done since I was a teenager.

Cutting pain was a different flavor of hurt. It made it easier not to think about having my body and my family and my life stolen, made it easier not to care… -Wintergirls

The fellowship of those who bear the mark of pain: who are the members of this Fellowship? Those who have learnt by experience what physical pain and bodily anguish mean, belong together all the world over; they are united by a secret bond.

Help, I have done it again I have been here many times before Hurt myself again today And the worst part is There’s no-one else to blame.

Why? You want to know why? Step into a tanning booth and fry yourself for two or three days. After your skin bubbles and peels off, roll in coarse salt, then pull on long underwear woven from spun glass and razor wire. Over that goes your regular clothes, as long as they are tight.

I like the cuts – they comfort me – I can’t lie.

I know what it’s like to want to die. How it hurts to smile. How you try to fit in but you can’t. You hurt yourself on the outside to try to kill the thing on the inside.

One really ought to be afraid of self-torture. But it tempted me. It begged. The dark place that my mind was fast becoming blends, in my memory, with the dark womb of church: the chant, the fugue of prayer, the strange erotic energy that carving a very small cross into my thigh with a nail had brought.

There was an awful rainbow once in heaven: We know her woof, her texture; she is given In the dull catalogue of common things. Philosophy will clip an angel’s wings.

The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.

And I am still alive-what though, my damnation is eternal. A man who deliberately mutilates himself is truly damned, is he not? I believe that I am in hell, therefore I am.

I hurt myself today to see if I could feel. I hurt myself, you said to try to make him feel. So I hurt myself again to see if he’d see me. I hurt myself again and no, he never could see me.

A decade of cutting away dead flesh, cauterizing old scars ripped open over and over and still it is not enough.

these are the screams within these are the life streams bleeding from skin

She felt so much emotionally, she would say, that a physical outlet – physical pain – was the only way to make her internal pain go away. It was the only way she could control it.

When I cut myself I feel so much better. All the little things that might have been annoying me suddenly seem so trivial, because I’m concentrating on the pain

My skin is like a map of where my heart has been And I can’t hide the marks It’s not a negative thing.

The bathroom door swings open. Emma sees the blood painting my skin and the red rivers carved on my body. Emma sees the wet knife, silver and bone. The screams of my little sister shatter mirrors.

I get fixated when I’m bleeding — I can see why they went in for blood-letting in the medieval times because it makes you feel a bit better. When I cut myself, the drama of it calms me down.

The body can’t distinguish between cleansing and punishing for the body is ignorant, and mute besides.

We couldn’t imagine the emptiness of a creature who put a razor to her wrists and opened her veins, the emptiness and the calm.

I can’t stop thinking about cutting myself up. Visual bruises can be covered with make-up, but down to the core, I’m all bruises.

Every fear, every night terror, every hour I cried for Liev, every fight with Sebastian is registered as a neat white scar.

At least you know where you are with blood. At least other people can see it.

I’ll take a rusty nail and scratch your initials on my arm.

And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand, The hand that held the steel: For only blood can wipe out blood, And only tears can heal

Everyone asks about how I’ll feel about the tattoos and scars in thirty years. I always say: “I’ll like them.” I’ve always loved damaged monuments, in architecture and in humans.

I always hated when my scars started to fade, because as long as I could still see them, I knew why I was hurting.

Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence– whether much that is glorious– whether all that is profound– does not spring from disease of thought– from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect.

Better to inflict pain on myself than to let other people do it.

I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.

You can close your eyes to reality but not to memories

I find cutting myself attractive … I find it sexual.

I wanted to die, then. I wanted to destroy the body I was trapped in, become what she was, no matter what it took. No matter how much mutilation or pain. But he looked away, at me. He pulled my face down and pressed my lips against his like he was almost trying to suffocate us both.

Some kids are so depressed at home and with how people treat them in school that they cut themselves. This happens all over the world – kids who don’t want to kill themselves, but nobody understands how much they hurt, so they cut themselves with razor blades.

Shedding off one more layer of skin, Keeping one step ahead of the persecutor within.

I felt white, drained of blood, cared for, purified. Peaceful.