Self-Harm and Bodily Autonomy

Stock photo of a brown teddy bear with a bandage around its head and another on its leg, and two band-aids crossed over one another on its chest. I mostly chose this image because I didn't want any graphic self-harm pictures and because it is adorable, like me.

Note: This post is, naturally, going to talk about acts of self-harm in detail, and also refers briefly to suicidal ideation and surviving abuse. You can feel free to give this one a miss, and at the weekend I’ll be posting something sexier and less commonly triggering, so watch this space!


The first time I can remember hurting myself on purpose, I was five years old.

I didn’t jump straight to sharp objects. There was a misunderstanding, and I was upset, and whilst I was alone in my room I bit into my own wrist with such sustained ferocity that I left two perfect little crescents, indents of my baby teeth in my flesh. Of course, my mum noticed and was horrified, and I learned quickly that people did not like it when I hurt myself.

This did not stop me.

I have a collection of fuzzy memories from that age onward of hurting myself in various creative ways. I would give myself friction burns by running a belt back and forth over the back of my neck, where my long hair would cover the raw, reddened skin. I would scratch and scratch and scratch the same spot on my arm until it was too sore to even touch. I would pick at everything – spots, scabs, dry skin – and sometimes, when I was really upset, I would still bite myself until my jaw hurt.

When I was thirteen, I progressed to a pair of sewing scissors. These hurt instantly, drew blood instantly and had me breathing a sigh of relief instantly, but they also robbed me of plausible deniability. The wounds couldn’t have been anything other than self-harm. It was only a matter of time until somebody found out.

And they did, of course, and it was a whole Thing that I won’t go into here, and I started having counselling and also having sharp objects confiscated and hidden from me. Counselling was hard for me to engage with in a lot of ways (at 13, I knew they could break confidentiality if they were worried for my safety, so I had to self-censor a lot, and I didn’t hugely trust adults in any setting), but I hit a major roadblock that I still haven’t quite overcome: I couldn’t see why I needed to stop self-harming.

I was a smart kid whose mum had thoroughly instilled in them a sense of autonomy. I knew all the risks of cutting myself: I could misjudge it and catch a vein; the wounds could become infected; I would have scars forever. But, even at 13, I weighed it up and felt very strongly that cutting myself was safer than not doing so. I know that the first time I recorded a suicidal thought, I was 10, but it’s very probable I felt that way a lot earlier and just didn’t write it down in my Groovy Chick diary. At 13, self-harm was a pressure release valve that kept me alive from day to day.

As I’ve grown up, I’ve only become more perplexed about why, exactly, I shouldn’t harm myself. I’ve come to understand that it isn’t a constructive coping mechanism and doesn’t address the problems at hand, but most of the problems at hand have been so vast and complicated that I simply couldn’t address them. Being told to treat the root cause of my distress was not helpful when I was a teenage victim of domestic abuse, and it continues to be unhelpful now that I’m a traumatised adult with super fucky brain chemistry. And I was watching other people, in media and in real life, engage in equally non-constructive coping behaviours like drinking, self-isolation or bullying the autistic kid in their class for not knowing what a Pandora bracelet was (ahem. Not that I was the autistic kid in this example, or anything). And nowadays, I’m doing therapy, I’m practising self-care, but that doesn’t negate the need for self-harm all of the time.

I want to be very clear here: I am not advocating for anybody to take up self-harm, nor to continue doing it when they very much want to stop. Lots of people hate the fact that they self-harm, and I fully support any choices they make to quit and find alternative coping strategies. (I will lowkey judge people who recommend the rubber band method, though – the one where you wear a rubber band on your wrist and snap it against your skin whenever you have the urge to self-harm. You’re still reinforcing the connection between emotional distress and physical pain, you’re not addressing the root problems, and it’s not even a terribly effective method of harm reduction because most self-harmers find it so lacking that they end up relapsing anyway.) However, few people understand my frustration about the ways self-harm is addressed, so I want to articulate it. And I want other people in similar positions to feel less alone and weird.

The thing about self-harm is that it’s kind of… viscerally upsetting to other people. Like I mentioned in my post about blood and kink, we’re instinctively shocked by wounds and bleeding, and I think people are even more perturbed when you’ve caused those things on purpose. It also externalises your emotional pain, so your wounds are confronting the people who care about you with the reality that you’re suffering, and that’s hard for people. My mum sometimes tells me, “I’m not upset that you’ve self-harmed, but I’m upset that you were that distressed.” My mum is better at separating these two factors than most other people on the planet.

Joining the BDSM community only added to my confusion. People were supported in doing all sorts of viscerally upsetting things, like needle play and being beaten, as long as they were making informed, risk-aware decisions. I felt even more indignant about the way people responded to self-harm – I was making informed, risk-aware decisions! About my body, which everybody told me was mine to control!

I have no idea what makes BDSM “okay” and self-harm “not okay”. Maybe it’s the lack of another party’s involvement. Maybe it’s that one is motivated by pleasure and another is motivated by emotional pain (although, if I’m being real, people do use BDSM to address emotional pain, and I, for one, derive some degree of pleasure from self-harm). Maybe it’s just that we talk so much about autonomy and consent when it comes to sex and kink, but relatively little about those things in other contexts. Whatever it is, it still escapes me.

I self-harm a lot less than I did as a teen. (I used to bring my trusty sewing scissors to school every day. This was very reckless of me, since I did not also bring disinfectant. Also, I would not recommend pulling your tights back up as soon as you’re done mopping blood off your thighs – they stick.) That’s not because I’ve come to see that self-harm is Bad and other coping mechanisms are Good; it’s simply because I’m not quite as acutely distressed quite as often as I was then, thanks to being in a much safer environment and getting medicated. Sometimes I do try to use lower-risk coping strategies before I self-harm, like distraction or crying or going for a walk, but that’s not because I’ve learned that self-harm is, for some reason, bad – frankly, it’s largely because it’s inconvenient. I have bondage to do and I don’t want to bleed on nice, expensive rope.

Telling people that they shouldn’t self-harm is undermining their bodily autonomy. It’s obviously always important to respect someone’s autonomy, but when they’re self-harming because they’re dealing with or recovering from abuse, or anything else that makes their life feel outside of their control, it’s especially crucial that you don’t urge them to refrain or “quit”. You can remind them of the risks if that’s appropriate (like if you’re a medical professional, or their mum) and you can ask if there’s any other coping strategies they’d like to try first, but ultimately, every person has autonomy even when they’re using it in ways that others disapprove of. If you’re someone who self-harms and you’ve felt alone in the fact that you don’t see why you should stop: I see you. Know the risks, be as safe as you can, but know that I am not judging you. I’m as confused as you are. We’re going to be alright.


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Blood in a Kinky Context: My Blood Kink Explained

A white person's face (mine) with blood streaming from each nostril, because I had a nosebleed and it gave me blood kink feelings. I have a nose ring and a lip ring, and I'm very cute.

Note: This post discusses blood, including menstrual blood and bleeding as a result of self-harm, in the context of exploring my own blood kink. If those are hard topics for you, give this one a miss – and maybe check out some of my other posts on kink instead.


Blood, generally speaking, stays inside of people.

There are two notable exceptions to this. The first is when an injury is sustained which causes bleeding, and this is generally seen as a bad thing. It alarms the person injured and those around them, and the blood is usually cleaned up once the flow is stemmed. The second notable exception is menstruation, wherein a secret kind of blood is kept inside a person’s underwear, disguised with scented hygiene products and disposed of as quickly and thoroughly as possible.

Humans are often freaked out by blood (their own or other people’s) because, instinctively speaking, blood signals danger to us. There are additional layers of shame and misogyny attached to menstrual blood, as well as a layer of educated concern about infection transmission attached to any blood at all. Some people faint at the sight of blood, and this is easy to understand.

I am intrigued by the sight of blood, which is less straightforward.

I’ve always been fascinated by the hot, redder-than-red liquid that comes out of me in various contexts. I have a vivid memory, from when I was around eight, of watching my face in a hand mirror as I stretched my bottom lip so that the dry skin on it cracked and a huge, glistening orb of blood rose to the surface. I licked it up and enjoyed the taste, but I knew it was weird at least enough to refrain from mentioning it to anybody.

When I menstruate, I interact with the blood. I don’t just rip my pad from my gusset or dump the contents of my menstrual cup with efficiency and detachment – I play with the stuff. I put my finger at the entrance of my vaginal canal and then taste it. I empty my menstrual cup slowly and with reverence, watching my own viscera paint the inside of the toilet bowl crimson.

And when I engage in self-harm (which happens much less frequently than it used to), I play with that blood too. Once I’ve experienced the sharp rush of endorphins that hurting myself can give me, I soothe myself with the taste and texture of my blood. I let it drip. I am slow to dress my wounds because I enjoy what comes out of them. I recognise that that doesn’t sound terribly healthy, but it’s one aspect of self-harm that I think is more self-regulatory than self-destructive. I am, in effect, stimming with my blood. If I had a pint of it readily available, I could self-soothe without necessarily involving self-injury.

A lot of autistic people have strong aversions to, or affinities with, certain colours. I like any deep, rich ones – blood red, navy blue, Cadbury’s purple – and I especially like when they’re translucent, so I can see the world through them. (I own a red glass and a few samples of lighting gels for exactly this reason.) Combined with the distinctive taste and the variety of textures that blood boasts (runny! A little bit thickened! Unsettlingly gloopy!), it makes sense that I have a sensory, autistic fondness for blood.

But of course, in kink, it runs deeper than that. (Is that a blood pun?) For all of the above reasons, the sight of blood is culturally charged, absolutely buzzing with instinct-driven fear and society-driven taboo. When blood happens during kink, it feels profound. Blood is one of the most intimate fluids you can share with another person. As a submissive, bleeding during a scene feels so vulnerable and so dangerous that it acts as a demonstration of obedience and devotion. When I’m topping, seeing my bottom’s blood is a marker of their trust, a sign that they’re giving their body wholly to me. Either way, it’s as delicious psychologically as it is taste-wise.

My favourite ways to bleed in a scene are “accidentally”. I put that word in quotation marks because it’s never truly an accident; the only dominant partner I have who draws blood in scenes does so knowingly (there’s only so many times you can hit someone with a meat tenderiser without breaking skin), and we’ve discussed fluid transmission and our respective STI status very, very thoroughly. But I love bottoming, submitting, in a scene where someone beats me so hard that I bleed without fully expecting to, so lost in the sensation of getting hurt that the blood is a pleasant surprise at the end. I like bleeding as a secondary outcome to a scene, something my dominant partner is almost indifferent about – I like the sense that my bleeding isn’t terribly important. I think that might come from years of self-harm, when my bleeding was terribly important to my mum, my friends and my doctor, but it’s also a side-effect of objectification. Think, “I don’t really care that you’re bleeding on the sheets; I wanted to beat you, and I did. Now, I’m going to fuck your throat, and then we’re going to put a load of laundry on.”

My own menstrual blood appearing during sex is incidental to me unless I get (or am “forced”) to lick it off some fingers, a toy or a cock, in case you were wondering.

I think what I love most about bleeding in a kinky context is how human it makes me, how mortal, how connected to my body. It’s primal. It’s so natural, and yet so starkly surprising because of how thoroughly afraid of it we are and how infrequently we see it as a result. It’s impossible to ignore – even if you get past the saturated red tone of it, it smells like blood – and it can be oh, so satisfying to endure a scene in which I bleed, to ride out the caveman-brained panic of seeing it and to breathe through and ride the highs of the pain that accompanies it. I love blood in the same ways I love kink: it’s fucked up and delicious, it feels dangerous and intimate, and it’s so, so real and inescapable. It grounds me. Ironically, in spite of my caveman brain telling me that my own blood is a sign of danger, when done right, a bloody scene can help me to feel safe.

Disability, Dignity and the Myth of Independence

Stock image of the side of a door with keys inserted in the keyhole, primarily because it was the nicest thing that came up when i searched for "access".

I am well and truly fed up with people talking to me – or at me – about disability & independence.

You hear it in school. You hear it in college. You hear it in media about or relating to disability. Even the UK government calls the benefits it awards to disabled people “Personal Independence Payments”. And honestly? It gets on my tired, disabled nerves.

It gets on my nerves because very few people are truly independent. Have you ever ordered a pizza? You depended on somebody else to cook and deliver it. Have you ever made a phone call? You depended on the engineers who made that possible and on the person who sold you your phone. Even when people go off-grid, living self-sufficiently in reclaimed shipping containers, they’re often relying on the inventors and manufacturers of solar panels. I cannot think of a single person who is actually truly independent, because humans are social animals who are hardwired to rely on, and to help, other humans.

So why do I, as a disabled young adult, have to strive for some arbitrary level of independence that is vaguely defined and contrary to human nature?

People talk about independence like it should be the end goal for many folks with disabilities. The ideal disabled person, in society’s eyes, is one who can go places alone, do their grocery shopping on their own, complete household tasks unassisted and rely on nobody. Which is especially weird when you consider the number of adult men who have no clue how to do laundry or where to find vegetables in a supermarket, having sailed from life with parents to life with a partner who, if they’re female or assigned female, will do all of those things for them. In suggesting that disabled people should aim to – or want to – reach a level of independence whereby they don’t need to live with somebody or use the services of a carer, we’re holding disabled people to a higher standard than lazy men without disabilities.

Holding disabled people to high standards isn’t new, of course; one need only glance at the coverage of any Paralympics event to realise that disabled people are expected either to be groundbreakingly good at something or to melt into the background, meek and inoffensive. Expecting disabled people to be more independent than their abled peers isn’t outside of the norm, but it is damaging and hurtful to those of us who might never be able to live alone or who might always need to phone their mum before sending an email (which I definitely do). I’ve learned not to feel bad that I’ll never be a Paralympic athlete, or Rain Man, but I still feel bad that I’m not the wholly independent disabled person that I’m allegedly supposed to be.

I propose that we shift our focus away from independence, and instead look to a more subjective, holistic measure of quality of life for disabled people: dignity.

The wonderful thing about promoting dignity, rather than independence, is that its parameters change from person to person. For example: Alex, Bobby and Carly all have a disability that makes unlacing boots difficult for them. Alex feels undignified when xir partner unlaces xir boots for them, so xe spends the extra time practicing unlacing xir boots and mastering the use of a shoehorn to make the process easier. Bobby feels undignified when he’s bent over, struggling with his laces for fourteen full minutes, so he asks his friend to give him a hand. Carly, meanwhile, finds that both of those options undermine her personal sense of dignity, so she only buys and wears boots with elastic and no laces at all.

That last sentence is important – specifically, the part about Carly’s “personal sense of dignity”. We all experience dignity differently and can find different situations more or less dignified depending on our cultural backgrounds, personal hang-ups and many other factors. Independence is a rigid, standardised goal that looks similar for everybody who strives for it, but dignity is a personal, flexible goal that is achievable for everyone.

Some people probably wouldn’t feel dignified rocking backwards and forwards in a shopping centre, humming to themselves – but that, for me, feels more dignified than staying home, and certainly more dignified than a full-scale meltdown in a public place. The beauty of it is that I get to decide what makes me feel comfortable and act accordingly, without worrying that I’m not “independent” enough, and also without any external pressure to eventually “progress” to not using my tried-and-tested coping strategies, including reliance on my support network.

I don’t want to strive for independence. I’m a human, living in society, and I want to be able to lean on other people when I need to without guilt. I’m going to strive for dignity instead, however that looks for me.


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