The Hidden Ways We Hurt Ourselves- Fueled from a post that hit home

shaneandjoodlannet
Aug 31
3 min read

I read a post today written by a mom about her autistic child and how he struggles with pulling off his entire nail—and it resonated with me on a level I can’t ignore.

Reading her words took me back—because not all self-harm is obvious.

My Band-Aid Childhood

Self-harm wears many faces, and not all wounds show on skin.

Mine was quiet and unseen—nail clippers, infections, and hours bent over, stifling screams of agony as I played surgeon on myself.

I was the Band-Aid child.

My pockets, drawers, and school bag were always full of cotton, Neosporin, iodine.

As the infections became more frequent, they became my best friends—I couldn’t be without them.

My ingrown toenails were so bad that sometimes I could hardly walk. I missed school. I limped through days, pretending nothing was wrong. No one saw it for what it was. No one thought I was self-harming.

But I knew. Because often, there were no toenails left.

What the Doctors Said

Doctors didn’t ask questions. They blamed my body.

“Lose weight and you’ll be fine,” they told me.

As if weight could explain the blood on the floor, the hours I spent digging into my own skin, the obsessive need to hurt and to fix at the same time.

Even after surgery that was supposed to “end the problem,” the ingrowns came back.

And so did the cycle.

Packing My Own First Aid Kit

I used to go away for weekends to other people’s homes and made sure to pack a first aid kit I created myself—filled with the essentials: nail clippers, Neosporin, cotton, gauze, Band-Aids. I carried it quietly, because I felt too ashamed to ever ask for anything.

I would wrap every toe in Band-Aids, layer them with cotton and gauze, and shuffle around in open-toe slippers to hide the damage.

But the guilt was heaviest on Shabbat.

In my world, taking out ingrowns was a forbidden act—because on Shabbat, you’re not allowed to make yourself bleed. And yet, the more I tried to fight the urges, the stronger they became.

Sometimes, the forbidden only fuels the obsession. Knowing I wasn’t “supposed to” only made the compulsion to dig deeper, to pull harder, even more powerful.

When It Followed Me Into Adulthood

Every day was a battle—resisting the urge to pick, to pull, to cut deeper.

This hidden form of self-destruction followed me into my marriages.

There were nights I bled so badly I couldn’t get off the bed.

One night I called my first ex to come home and help me. He refused.

So I hobbled, bleeding, to the bathroom—alone.

Some people have told me this isn’t self-harm.

But I know it is.

The Roots of My Coping

Because this pattern didn’t just appear in adulthood. It began when I was young. It became how I coped with anxiety, with fear, with stress too big for me to carry.

Pain was my outlet. Hurting myself felt like control.

What Healing Looks Like Today

Today, the story is different.

I still get ingrowns. But now, I don’t let them control me.

I don’t sit in that spiral of obsession.

I breathe. I steady myself.

And only when I’m calm and grounded, I take care of them carefully.

That’s growth. That’s healing. But the truth remains:

Self-harm can take many forms.

Sometimes it looks like cuts on skin.

Sometimes it looks like eating disorders.

And sometimes, it looks like nail clippers and infections.

Too often, these hidden behaviors are ignored, dismissed, or misunderstood.

But they are real. They matter.

You Are Not Alone

And every single story—no matter how quiet, how hidden, how strange it might seem—deserves to be heard, deserves to be seen, deserves to be validated.

If you’ve ever struggled with hidden forms of self-destruction, please know this: you are not alone, your pain is real, and your story matters.

In strength and healing,

– Shane