Self Harm Art Novels & Stories

“If you’ve ever felt lonely, and a character feels lonely too, suddenly you’re not alone anymore. If you’ve ever felt bullied, kicked around, or cast out, and you see a character face the same thing, it feels like you find a kindred spirit. Like a long lost soul twin.” My chest tightened. She didn’t know, but she’d just explained to me. Anytime I painted or sketched or drew, I created the versions of the emotions I’d felt at the time. Pain, anger, loneliness, passion, and lately….desire. The entire class remained silent; even the idiots who’d usually howl or say something stupid stayed quiet. “Books or any other form of art remind people they’re not the only ones struggling. They help people

After Paige had said something in front of someone that reduced me to a specific size and I needed to go somewhere the size did not follow me. I painted there. Sometimes wrote, filling notebooks with stories that went the way I needed stories to go, where the girl found her way out and the people who had been cruel to her eventually understood the cost of that cruelty. I had written many alternative versions of my life in that studio. I had painted the feelings I had no other outlet for, dark and dense and saturated, because the canvas could hold things that I had learned it was not safe to carry visibly. The morning air was cool and the streets were quiet and I walked with my bag over my sh

"Do you think they realise they're putting parts of themselves into it?" Sophie was quiet for a moment. Then: "I think sometimes people say things through art because they don't know how to say them out loud." Jessica stared ahead. Because something about that felt painfully true. She thought about her drawings. About sad eyes. Dark shadows. Lonely people. About all the things she'd drawn before she'd understood why. Maybe she'd been speaking long before she'd started talking. Maybe pieces of her had been trying to escape for years. Sophie nudged her shoulder lightly.

What happens when a phase goes awry and becomes your daily life? What happens when the darkness prevails, and doesn't fade? You do what you have to, you keep moving, creating art as the expression of your life. When life beats you down, just do one thing. Create art, even out of depression. Victor Mairo More often than most, I ask myself questions that seem as though I'm insane or just an attention seeker. Which, truthfully, is a lie. In my own perspective that is. Don't mind my ramblings, you'd understand soon enough.

He's a whole lot different person that what I thought he would be. Once I step out of my painting room—it used to be empty where I kept extra boxes in here but I decided on a better solution to make it useful. I've been diving into art ever since my breakdown. Elis was helping me on a way to ease the amount of sadness, pain and anger. Painting was the solution; the only sweet escape because on the first few months, I was damaged. Mentally. Mostly.

ARIA (TRIGGER WARNING: The content below contains self-harm, mentions of sex trafficking, severe sexual abuse, death of an infant.) Three. Three. One. Two. Three. Three red vertical lines. Three. Three times I was assaulted. Three times I was broken. Three times parts of me were stolen. Three times I was left alone, a wrecked mess. Drip. Drip. Drip. Three drops. I dragged my gaze from the crimson lines and looked at the dark drops contrasting sharply against the white marble basin.

If it already has an adverse effect on their well-being, I hope that they will continue to reassure themselves that they deserve so much better. I fully comprehend and am sure it is nearly impossible to let go of something that you have sought for a long period of time, but whatever it is that negatively impacts you, you should always let it go before you end up losing yourself. I am the polar opposite of what they are. Because I am a grossly misinterpreted piece of artwork, my heart and scars mapped me away. I was crafted to be immaculately volatile, as my painting is sealed in constellations.

It may seem strange for someone like me, a capo, to have a passion for something as delicate and peaceful as art, but for me, it was a way to escape the harsh reality of my life. I would spend hours in my studio, lost in the colors and brush strokes, creating a world that was completely different from the one I lived in. I first discovered my love for art when I was a young boy, growing up in the rough streets of the city. My childhood was filled with violence, poverty, and abuse, and I was constantly searching for a way to escape. It wasn't until I stumbled upon an art class in my community center that I found my escape. The moment I picked up a brush and started painting, I was transported

I spent so much time carrying so much shame because I was afraid to do anything outside of their rules. I dip my paintbrush in a dark red and start pulling it across the canvas, leaving streaks of paint that feel dark and different than anything I’ve done before. Before I know it, I’m staring at a self-portrait in dark shades of red, gray, black, and orange. It looks like it’s bleeding. It feels alive with rage and anger, but there’s so much more underneath the surface. I add in some lighter accents before stepping away and deciding it’s perfect. It’s exactly how I’m feeling, like a reborn version of myself who’s no longer afraid to acknowledge and show how much damage my upbringing did to m

It's raw, powerful, angry in a way that speaks to something deep in my chest. "Maria Gonzalez," Austin says, coming up behind me. "Single mother, works three jobs to support her kids. Creates art from whatever she can find." "It's beautiful." "It's honest." He moves to another piece, a painting that's all sharp angles and bleeding color. "This is James. Veteran, struggling with PTSD. Art is the only thing that keeps him grounded." I follow him through the space, and he tells me about each artist. Their stories, their struggles, their dreams. His voice carries genuine affection, real respect for what they're creating despite their circumstances.