People love the pretty line that it’s “better than dying,” and they try to talk you into it. If you hurt yourself so you won’t die, they pull away and ask what’s wrong with you, whether you want to die. I’ve heard that a hundred times already. I’m doing it because I want to live.
When I can’t stand it anymore—when I want to jump off a rooftop right now, when I’m desperate to escape this anxiety even one second sooner and find myself longing for the sky—I might cut my wrist as a way of throwing myself off the track. Or I might beat my thigh to hell instead. For the record, my leg hurts like crazy because of it. Lately my sleeping pills and psych meds have run out, and the anxiety won’t stop.
Pain signals sit absurdly high on the body’s priority list. Animals, in general, are quick to react to pain. Even if my mind is in full panic—screaming “I want to jump right now!”—the moment wrist splits with a quick slice and a dark red fluid begins to run, the sensation of pain can take over my thinking. The response to pain comes first. And as a result, The pain from cutting would be more likely to steady me than the terrifying anxiety that keeps screaming for death. Adrenaline hits, and I can focus, too.
In short, I hurt myself so I won’t die right now. Or I take a large amount of pills and knock myself out—because if I stay awake alone like this, I feel like I’ll die. I don’t live above the third floor. I don’t think I could resist the temptation of stepping onto a balcony and dropping, if it promised relief.
I don’t want to die, because dying would hurt the most.
That’s why asking “Why would you hurt yourself—do you want to die?” is a question that misses the point. Self-harm or overdose is a twisted form of “I want to live.” The real question should be: shouldn’t we ask “Why do you want to die?” If the panic eases and I can speak in reasons—even a little—then maybe those reasons could be addressed one by one. Cutting and overdoing it can appear in the middle of that process.
Or maybe it’s simpler: maybe they're being crushed by loneliness. In that case, bleeding becomes a way to communicate, “I’m hurt this badly.” Everyone wants to be understood, but not everything can be put into words. When a person is at their limit—when they feel they’ll be crushed by loneliness or suicidal thoughts—showing blood can seem like the bluntest way to convey that state through action rather than conversation. Ethically, it’s wrong. But as the logic of someone cornered, it can feel rational.
This happens because they can’t sleep. If they could just lie on a pillow and drift off, it would all be solved.
And isn’t it strange to scold someone who’s cornered by saying, “Don’t get cornered”? I can’t voice “help me” properly. Or in that moment, I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do. That’s what fear and trauma are. To escape the fundamental terror of death—to keep living—I hurt myself. Even if it’s something like pounding my thigh. I’m not endorsing it. If possible, I don’t want anyone I know to hurt themselves. I know the self-destructive version of me will regret it. I don’t want to do it either, if I can help it.
Still, I understand the principle: when I’m truly driven into a corner, it can feel like there are no other options.
If a smaller pain can dull the massive pain that’s about to hit, I reach for it.
I know it won’t save me. But if it’s what it takes to survive the moment, I do it. Clinging to what people say—“Just stay alive for now,” “If you live, something good will happen”—I’m desperate for any survival strategy that will get me through a night of suffering.
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