"You have a soldier's veins." The doctor chuckled as he explained the very good biological reason for my deeply recessed blood vessels, which always caused such a problem when medical professionals tried to take my vital fluid. Apparently I was made to fight medieval wars. The hard to reach veins, the slow metabolism keeping down the need for feeding, the ability to block out pain, hunger, thirst, discomfort of any kind, by focusing on the goal and getting there by any means necessary, good traits for those who must endure such hardships for a greater good, or simply to survive in battle.
However, here I am, a 21st century city apartment dweller, fighting mostly in the arenas of traffic and office politics. The old flight/fight adrenalin rush that wants me out there in the fray has to instead be pretty constantly quelled if I am to successfully fit in to modern civilization. So, the fight naturally comes to be against myself.
I am pretty well protected against the razor blade. My overzealous gag reflex keeps out the obvious poisons. I have found a way, though, through incremental poisoning of my soul with a fairly constant drip of despair. Slowly, insidiously, it eats away at what had meant to be protected, dissolving those veins from within so that I may succumb to internal bleeding.