I thought I wouldn't have it this way again. I tried to scream; I did scream. No sound came out of my mouth. I didn't even move. I threw punches at the air, but didn't get my arms off the sides of my body. For almost ten years, I haven't done this. My symptoms are getting slowly, surely worse.
I hate my hands. The sight of them disgusts me. I'm left with nothing but a burning desire for my habit. Nine years ago, I wore them constantly. I didn't have to see my flesh, and nobody else did either. My demons were my cilice, and I covered them in leather gloves. In high school, I wanted to be a monk; I thought it was a noble way to stay safe from myself. Today, I'm almost monastic: my travel is limited, it's a rare day when I speak, and I write this to the exclusion of other communication. I'll call myself the Order of My Solitude. This blog will be a window into my lonely struggle. How else will I be heard when I scream and punch in desperation, but don't move a muscle?