Hungry

Trigger warnings for blood and gore, self-mutilation, and mental health issues

———————————————————————————————————————————————

Intake form diary entry listed below:

Signed off by Dr. Maddow 

10/30/15

‘It was never enough. That unmistakable itch, gnawing at my insides like a hungry tapeworm. My brain never allowed me to rest long enough to keep my hands from moving, picking, scratching. A primal urge to make my body hurt.

I couldn’t remember the last time I hadn’t picked at some part of my body until it bled, hopefully dragging the sickness I felt inside with it. My mother’s deliberate eyes always raked over my arms or face for a new wound and would sigh deeply every time I came into the room with a fresh band aid. It wasn’t my fault the worms in my brain never let me sleep until they were satisfied.

Salt was an everyday enemy, food being rendered tasteless if I abstained from it. My lips were my favorite things to attack and the sting would bring me back to the present with every grain of salt. Chips or popcorn at my local movie theater proved to offer a challenge I was willing to accept.

Sometimes if I had a particularly aggressive night, blood would stain my pillows and dried brown splotches would decorate every pillow on my bed. I had been smart enough years ago not to invest in white or tan colored sheets of any kind; lest my mind wandered during the middle of the night and the blood started to flow.

If you’re wondering to yourself while reading, “This bitch is crazy, what kind of crackhead are we dealing with here?” You would be correct in your assumption of some kind of drug leading me to my undeniable lust for the scarring of my own flesh but that is simply not the case. I will have you know that no drugs have ever entered my system that were not prescribed by an accredited doctor in an actual office rather than in a dimly lit alleyway.

My affliction began at a young age and not because of a lack of parental love or some other trauma as most would assume given my track record of being in a place like this. I’ve always known to have had a few screws loose but not in a cool way to get out of gym or to lure in a vulnerable soul in search of love and a savior complex. No, however, the few screws still bouncing around up there lead to weeping wounds and skin so raw and red that one would think I was a burn victim.

I remember my first time enacting the soon to be everyday affair; I was sitting in my bedroom, idling working on my math homework packet. One of my nails had snagged on my perched leg, an angry scrape in its wake. Not a single wince but a settling of my mind for a moment. I was focused on the delicious hint of pain that I didn’t notice the insistent voice in my head that never seemed to shut up. In search of an answer to my new-found hypothesis, I ran my sharp nail across my leg again, this time harder and longer. A few beads of blood bubbled up and once again my mind quieted for a few minutes as the slight throbbing entered the surface of my skin.

From then on, I couldn’t resist the urge any longer. It was like a well overflowed and let out my deepest longings for silence and pain. Nothing and no one could stop me and no inch of my body was safe. Of course, a multitude of infections came along with my new-found love for mutilation but I would soon learn how to combat that as well. Hydrogen peroxide and bandaging became my new best friends. My bathroom counter turned into an off-brand pharmacy, both with topical ointments and the increasing number of medications my mother and doctors shoved my way. They never did anything and neither can you, whoever is reading this.

I may as well get everything on the table and let you know that I’ve had an update of sorts regarding my situation. Upon migrating my picking and gnawing to my lips, I had no choice but to swipe away remnants of blood at times. It was like I entered another level of satisfaction I had not yet realized. The metallic taste would sit on my tongue deliciously and make my mouth water in want of more. I would rip and tear the skin on my lips so ravenously that the blood would dribble down my chin in rivulets. And yet I would gather it on my fingers, not wanting to let the ecstasy escape from me. I didn’t want to miss a single drop. I’d lick my fingers like it was a sweet nectar from a flower, not my own bodily fluids. The pain was one aphrodisiac but the blood was an added element that made my stomach flip with delight rather than disgust.

My mother could not agree and she had made the mistake one night by walking in on my alone time. I was in the middle of my daily indulgence, blood caking my fingers and sitting under my fingernails as I ravaged my arms. Scabs barely formed anymore and if they did, I would rip them from the epidermis, eliciting blood to the surface and allowing me to lick it up. A combination that I would aptly enjoy more and more everyday. Horror was all I could sense as soon as the door opened to my bedroom. There was a measurable tension that entered the room and a distant scream of confusion alerted me to my mother’s presence. I was absorbed in my ecstatic haze that I hadn’t noticed her form right away but her torrent of distressful comments had brought me back to the present.

”Oh my god! What are you doing? Spit that out right now!”

Little did she know I had been ingesting my own flesh and blood for weeks if not months, my body becoming a feast I had never thought about before. As I had regained my physical self, my hands were holding onto something wet and the slickness of it slid down my bare arms. Blood coated my lap and rushed down my front, tendrils of the sticky liquid dangling from my mouth, mixed with my ravenous saliva. A discarded knife laid by my curled up feet and a chunk of my own thigh was still grasped tightly in my hands. The muscle twitched as if thinking it was still attached to my leg and the meat itself was reminiscent of pork, the pale pink glistening with crimson intersections of broken veins.

I could hear her vomit but I was too focused on the image in front of me, transfixed on the gore I had caused myself. And yet I was tranquil, my mind didn’t yell at me. It was leaving me alone, a constant buzz of TV static instead of the yelling you’d hear at a sports game. I couldn’t help but giggle, the absurdity of my own machinations leaving me giddy.

One thing did annoy me at that moment though, a piece of my thigh was stuck in my teeth.’

End of psychiatric entry-

Patient: Kayla Richardson