Written on a the plane, and worked on at random a.m. hours....
So here I sit thousands of feet in the air, miles from anywhere I know. Homeless. No place to go, lost, searching for I know not what. I miss the people I’ve left behind but mostly I just feel numb. Going back wouldn’t help. No right answer. So tired. All I can do is just try and try again, because what else is there? What other choice? I was up at the park with Felipe and a post fell and hit me on the knee. He asked me if I was ok, and I said "Yes because I have no choice" I didn’t have the luxury of breaking down then, and I don’t have that luxury now. Not here, not now, maybe I will later when I’m alone. No witnesses, but I think I might return to a rather bad habit if I do. It’s been so long.8 months? 10? I don’t remember really. I just kept putting it off a couple more days, a couple more days, until I realized that I had quit. But I still remember just the way it feels. The sharp bite of the blade running slowly along the flesh. Drawing it out. Always a vague sense of disappointment that I can’t do more. The way everything relaxes like a weight lifted, but it doesn’t last long. Always need more, more often. More like heroine than "SI." What a stupid name "Self Injury" There is no pretty way to refer to it, but this sounds like a wing in a hospital. I am so tired of wanting it, of the other side of my internal dialogues whispering that it wouldn’t hurt to do it just once more. Only a little, or maybe even do it right this time… Once suicide is considered once it becomes a permanent option that you can’t deny. Once it’s there it never goes away. You have to make the decision to live every day, sometimes every hour, every minute. I won’t do it. There are people who care about me and it wouldn’t be fair. But I certainly don’t care about my life much. Jorge could have killed me easily. When he popped my neck, he needed only a little more pressure. The thought didn’t bother me nearly as much as one might think. I had a feeling of half anxiousness, half… hope? I was certainly more worried about rape than being murdered. I suppose that sounds a bit melodramatic but true nonetheless. As it was, he only gave me a massage and a kiss or two. Still can’t quite tell if I’m relieved or disappointed.
Why Cutting?
Why indeed? Why on earth would someone wish to harm themselves? The topic is so sensitive, so personal, not to mentions all of the influences of pop culture, that it becomes very difficult to pinpoint exact reasons. I have taken the time to do just that. This is mostly for myself, a painful, self-exploration to find the roots of a dangerous temptation.
1. Number one for me has always been guilt for both real and perceived faults. For things done and left undone. Ironic that I should quote the book of common prayer in this particular discussion, but it fits. There are so many things that I feel the need to do penance for. Failure. Running away. Never being good enough. Never being worthy of staying in touch with. For always hurting those I care about. My laziness, my anger, my confusion. For not being normal, for not being christian, for not being straight for god's sake!
Then there comes the nebulous, half formed thoughts, that haunt me but that I never let myself fully examine. How Dad never quite loved me anymore, after he found out I wasn't his perfect little girl. How maybe, just maybe, mum and dad's divorce.......Could it have been my fault? Shattered family image, shrinks, and disappointed looks. Tempers high, tensions even higher, and through it all, the black fingers of depression... Does all of the shit start and end with me, or does it have as little to do with me as dad? Is there any way of knowing?
2. Control. This pain is one thing that I can control. When, where, how long, how much, how deep. No one can force me to start or stop. No one can take it away from me, no one will even ask me about it. It is mine and only mine. That it is physically unpleasant is secondary.
3. Focus. This is closely linked with number two. When everything on the outside is out of control, and on the inside all of the unknowable things, worries, stresses, and emotions are blowing around like a hurricane. But when the bright steel is in my hand, everything stops. There is nothing else in the universe except its cold reflection, and its silvery bite. The winds of confusion stand still. The outside world no longer matters. Everything boils down to utter simplicity, and the mind becomes clear.
4. It's a symbol, a sign, a rebelion against looking so perfect on the outside when you feel so fucked up on the inside. I feel I must tear a tiny hole in my mask, if only so that I don't forget myself. And maybe...maybe it's so that others might notice too one day. The last thing on earth that I want to do is talk about it, but maybe it would help if someone knew. Maybe I need to show someone my wrists and have them merely hug me, be there for me if I want to talk. Or maybe its a cry for help. But I don't want help, there is no help for this. Not for this which afflicts me. What can be done to remedy self-hatred? Well not exactly self-hatred, self-disgust is more like it. No shrink can cool my anger, balm my wounds, or strengthen my tired spirit...No rest for the weary.
5. Sometimes the numbness comes for days on end. All emotions faded, washed away, lost in white noise. When it gets bad there are few things that can bring me back. If someone manages to bypass the walls that go up, far enough to make me truly laugh, the walls shatter and I am freed. Pain is the only other remedy. The stinging pain that drowns out the static, that burns through the fog and gets me out. The blade is dependable. How can I trust that there will always, or even ever, be someone to bring me out?
With a smile that can fool the world...Who can see these scars?
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