Content note: this article contains descriptions of self-harm that readers may find upsetting.

I discovered self-harm the same way most girls do: in the school bathroom in hushed tones, as we gathered around to see one girl roll up her sleeve and reveal the damage she had done to herself. Gasps ensued at the horrors of what she was revealing, but I was transfixed on the idea of cutting as soon I became aware of it. Shortly after, my self-harm journey began.

Vividly, months later, I remember my dad grabbing my wrist and desperately trying to connect in that impersonal way that only men from his generation know how to do. “What are you going to do when you’re applying for jobs?” he asked gruffly. “Nobody will hire you if your arms look like that.” Thankfully, in the weeks and months following this conversation, my cutting calmed down. I no longer felt the need to harm myself regularly – at least in that way, at least that often – and my scarring was incredibly minimal.

It wasn’t until over a decade later that this psychological issue would rear its head again when, during a year-long breakdown in 2017, I deeply damaged my left arm on multiple occasions. For a while, I resorted to wearing only long-sleeved tops and dresses, pulling them down so only my fingertips poked out underneath, and went on with my time as normally as I could. A full-covered sleeve is commonplace enough in the UK’s cooler climate, especially when you’re a plus-size woman who is presumably covering up her thick, soft limbs due to internalised fatphobia.

“Why does showing my self-harm scars still feel so uncomfortable?”