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I’ve dug another hole!

August 9, 2021 - 16:21 -- Admin

That is a classic line from The Castle where one of the characters digs holes for pleasure.

The other night I dug a hole in my middle left toe when trying to sleep I ripped the toe nail off.

Sounds gruesome but I got pleasure throb from the wound site as it blared from its tightly wrapped confines within doona folds.

I talked with my psych; that it’s a coping mechanism from childhood on I used to combat turmoil and stress but its gone out of control now I’ve drifted into the pleasure lane—where my brain gets a happy kick from micro-harm.

Or macro; a naked toe bed is no soft touch. But that it was better off than on is a deep concern that my conscious logical brain is going YARRGH! WTF?! Are you nuts?!

And I am; I’m mentally ill. I’ve been that way since nine.

We binged on Hoarders and all the subjects were mentally ill; their common root was trauma of loss—often sudden like surprise breakups or all siblings and parents dead in a year. Their hoard was a protective sheath—objects linked to memories of the lost. Or was accrued from shopping where the purchase high wasn’t married with actual use of the item got; oft rotting in place covered with filth, mold or shit.

Their hoard was armour—literal protection from would-be intruders with only those of the house who know the paths through the trash; like the garbage compactor in the Death Star without the tentacle monster within.

My clawing at body is balm for the mind like their mounds are to them. Who was I to judge.

At least though with mine there’s no chance of dead cats; you wouldn’t believe the state those corpses come out in from hoards of animals with stuff.

And the poo; good lord, the poo. A level five hoard is where there is no power, water or heat. No water means poo bags for humans and poo free for pets.

Hoarders; their pain is manifest for all to see—my wounds lie hidden beneath dressings or clothes.

The next day the nail bed was no longer throbbing though agony to touch. My psych said that’s the hangover, the price paid once the rush has gone. That perhaps ‘fore I do it again remind myself what lies on the other side of the pain-pleasure barrier once the pleasure is void.

Self-harm for people; it’s a rush—instant onset and bliss’d relief.

The afterglow is fucked; I iz proof.