quiet is worse, probably

when i was younger, in those loud and chaotic group homes, in those uncaring public schools, i could easily self-soothe without worrying. no one cared. i could repeatedly bash my head into the concrete or the doorway or the metal support beam in the handicapped stall. as long as i left the classroom or main room i could make those noises in the back of my throat. i could hit or slap myself loudly, i could break my shit, rip things apart, snap my whittling projects into pieces.
then in my last home, behavior was strictly monitored, loud outbursts were not allowed. when i was homeless they were allowed again. now that i live with my partner they are not allowed (bc it would annoy, or worse, worry them. k and their parents would notice, would ask, would try to talk to or stop me).
quiet methods of self-soothing take longer to work, and they feel worse. an angry, loud fist simply does not do as much damage as an angry, quiet knife. stuffing my mouth with my thumb and hand meat to keep from making noises leads to having to furtively pop the thumb back into the socket once i’ve calmed down, and then a nasty wound that makes washing the dishes suck even worse than usual. it’s satisfying to bite a little chink of my arm or slash the shit out of my legs, but when you’re in that sort of headspace it gets messy as hell and is a b¡tch and a half to clean up afterwards. a back and neck full of scratched-open wounds is a louder/brighter pain in the shower than bruises or some raw knuckles. i’ll put my hands in my mouth to keep them from hitting and they tug so hard at my lower teeth and jaw that i’ve loosened and lost teeth from it. ripping apart my me is a lot quieter than breaking chains or treating apart wood, but it sure seems less healthy.
it’s kind of ironic that having people who’d care results in hurting myself worse