What I was doing was foul — and it was simultaneously delicious, a release from all the self-loathing. Cutting myself was disgusting — but I was disgusting too. My body had betrayed me. It had let me down in so many ways — too big, too small, too touched, too imperfect, too fractured. The red lines on my skin felt like a message to others: it’s okay, the message said, to find me repulsive, because I do too.
