On Self-Harm, BDSM and Mental Illness

In an earlier 30 Days of Kink post, I talked a lot how I distanced myself from playing with blood as a kink because of my mental state at the time.

A fellow reader asked me to elaborate – and I wasn’t sure how I could, or what I could even say, but I thought I would attempt to talk a bit about it, in case there are those out there, lurking and anonymous.

I can’t really tell you why I began to cut myself when I was a teenager. I’m sure internet articles will tell you the basics about it – it’s a cry for help, it processes feelings, all that. I’m not disputing that, I’m just saying I’m not sure why it happened for me. Maybe I was making sense of the world and processing through my first real break up with a girlfriend – I don’t know. I was just drawn to it, seeing how much pain I could force onto myself.

What I can tell you is a girlfriend and I, a likeminded Kinky individual, began experimenting with knife play, right down to causing bleeding. I can still see her carving asterisks into her thigh as we both got off on it.

The thing was, this wasn’t knife play in a controlled safe environment – our heads weren’t in the right frame of mind. We were both dealing with depression, mine all the more sneakier by me not even realising it. Looking back I suspect I was so adamant to avoid my family’s line of depression that I refused to believe.

So knife play wasn’t a good idea for us because we were taking what should’ve been an isolated pain or pleasure experience and somehow using it to deal with what was bubbling underneath. I mean, I can’t speak for her, I’m just guessing at this point based on experience with her then and experience as an adult now. And, you know, my own personal thoughts.

The final straw came when I stabbed a pair of scissors into my arm. I could actually hear the skin pop as it was torn open. With that, I broke down, angry and ashamed and disgusted at myself. Nothing I can write will convey how torn up I was by this action.

So I stopped and never looked back on doing it again.

Could I engage in knife play? I could – to an extent. There would have to be limitations – no blood, for starters and no actual cutting so I guess it’d be more in line with role play – and I would initially struggle to not picture the moment with the scissors, but I could.

Yet I still struggle with thoughts of suicide. Sometimes I can picture – so vividly in my mind – hanging myself in the garage – but when such times come, I try to think on hope, try to remind myself I have family, I have a life – I have a beautiful lady who I would forever shatter if I did such a thing. And I think how my suicide would make the lives of my dearly loved so empty that my heart hurts and stills my mind.

So. Two things – if you’re like me and knife play has become a fetish, stop and be clear on why you are doing it, think on how healthy it is, think of ways in which you can explore alternative methods of pain and pleasure. Be sure as to how safe and controlled you are.

If you’re anxious and depressed and suicidal, remember you’re not alone. There’s no shame in seeking help, from your local help line, from a friend or family – or if you don’t have anyone, from me. You are never alone, no matter what.

This extends to anyone reading – be you new reader or old, regular lurker or new lurker, someone who has been trying to write the ‘perfect’ email instead of a rambles or if you think you are too old or young or whatever – please – if you want to write, if you need to write, just put it down all at once. You’re writing to a guy with a floordrobe so don’t worry about a mess – i don’t judge.

Be kind to yourselves and remember how important you are to the world.

By The Sword, Part II

Part One can be found here

When the chill subsided, she let out a gasp and readied herself. Inhale the light, exhale the dark. With a steady hand, she drew the sword down across her breasts, the tip trailing coolly across her here nipples.

With the tip resting on her right nipple, she held it there. Gripping the handle with her right hand, she applied downward pressure on Chance, feeling the bite of the sword softly…then harder…then harder. She could take it, she could feed it.

When she felt the sword start to puncture, start to prick, she eased it off, and catching her breath, smelling her strong scent, slid the sword down her stomach, giggling as she trailed it, snakelike, in waves.

When the blade reached her pussy, she stopped, tilting the sword in a clockwise motion, letting the fine edges glide across her slit carefully.

She thought of Chance killing, she thought of the blade between her legs, thinking any moment it could carve into her and bleed her out. Her light would go out in an instant, her body left to be found by the guards when their patrol takes them to the armoury.

The sheer thought of balancing her life, her arousal, with this blade caught in her throat as a whimper. She let it out to bounce on the cobblestone walls, filling the chamber with life.

For a moment Avellana laid still, twisting the blade in a rocking motion, moving from one side of her lips to the other. Again, she thought of death, again she thought of adventure, again her senses flooded her, the blade, catching onto the skin of her thigh, marking her, her own scent all around her, the cool air on her body – on the floor amongst weapons and armour, Avellana felt alive.

Her thighs stinging, she gripped the handle with her soaked right hand, lifting the blade upwards again over her slit. It grazed her clit as it went – and, involuntarily, her legs began to spasm. Her thighs clenched shut around the sword and she let out a noise half way between a giggle and a shriek.

With her thighs interlocked around the blade, she felt important, and because of that, she felt stupid. She wanted it all, the risk of death, the kiss of adventure, the dance of life. And with her thighs wrapped, she eased her ass off the ground, raising her slit into the blade. Just like before, she felt for the moment the blade would puncture flesh and just like before she eased off, resting the edges across her clit.

Avellana imagined in that moment that she would’ve looked silly, thrusting into the blade, lifting her ass in the air, to grind ever gently across the blade. Even so, she dare not stop. There was pleasure there in the thrust, yes, but there was a pain. Edging this pain across her slit prodded at the pain, seemed to satisfy the sting. And with the sting came a sense of relief. The itch had been scratched – had needed to be scratched again. And again.

As her slit met the blade, her left hand pinched her nipple, twisted it, pulled it. Each time she met the prodding pain, she pulled on her nipple, stretching it till the pain bit her back.

When a wave, a striking, silky wave, crashed over her – heat and cool spiralled out from her fingertips to her head. Tears came in her eyes.

Avellana didn’t want to come. Not yet. Not really, but everything cascaded down onto her body and out through the slash in her thigh where the blade at cut her.

She rose her ass up one last time, twisting her head to the right, her vision becoming obscured by her luscious locks of hair. Pain, sharp and searing, courses through her body, running from the slash in her thighs out through her nipples writhing in anguish.

Avellana let out a cry as her orgasm reaches its crescendo – and as it began to subside, as her legs began to spasm and her breathing began to regulate, she hugged Chance close to her body. For after she had come back into her body, she would begin again. This time with the candle wax.