I’ve tried so so terribly hard to keep my mouth shut on this one. But I can’t any longer. I need to get this off my chest once and for all and so help me if I lose followers then so be it.
I preface what I say with this: I intellectually know, understand and believe that one’s problems are never comparable to any others. Especially mental illness. There is no such thing as a ‘fake cutter’ and a ‘real cutter’. If someone is bringing a blade to their body in any capacity, they are obviously in a great deal of pain and require professional help. The severity of ones cuts are no indicator of the authenticity of that persons suffering.
However, I cannot control the jealousy I feel towards people who identify as self harmers, and photos they share reveal cuts that will never leave permanent scars. Cuts more akin to scratches. They can stop tomorrow or the next month or next year and go on to live a perfectly normal, unaffected life.
I have craters in my arms. I am fucking frankenstein’s monster. Years later, you can still see the scars left by sewing needles used to suture my self inflicted wounds. You could dot-to-dot puzzle that shit.
I have to cover my scars when I interview for jobs so employers don’t think I’m crazy and weird and unreliable and will actually hire me. I have to wear cardigans to work in the Australian Summer heat so I don’t alarm customers. I have to find long sleeved outfits every time I will be around children.
And I constantly have to find legitimate reasons for doing so when I am ambushed with questions like, “Aren’t you hot?” and “Why are you wearing that for?”.
I had to quit my job at one store because the work uniform was a short sleeved t-shirt.
I am often rejected from shows and musicals due to my obvious scars but when I find a society kind enough to overlook it (or blind enough not to notice them at first), I always have that awkward conversation with the costume lady where I request a long-sleeved costume.
Even when walking around anywhere in public where I feel free and entitled not to cover my scars, I will still instinctively turn my arm around to shield an oncoming child’s view of my forearm.
I can’t wear a nice dress at Christmastime without hiding underneath a layer because my grandparents are too old and frail to understand. One year when the cuts were still contained to one arm, I wrapped it up in a bandage and pretended I had sprained my wrist, and my parents went along with it and encouraged the silencing of my depression.
If I have described you, then I don’t think your pain is any less than mine, nor that your cutting (or other form of self harm) is any less ‘severe’ than my own. I’m just mostly sad, that I never stopped ruining my life when I could have and jealous that you still have that chance.
Please stop now. Stop now while you still can. I would give anything to be you again.
I swear I could have touched you in my dreams, you were that real.
Perhaps the immense problem I have accessing and allowing myself to experience anger is because I still don’t believe I deserve to own it. I still fundamentally believe I deserved to be raped, therefore I do not get to feel poorly about it.
Perhaps when I insist on walking home alone at night or putting myself in other danger I am testing myself. Testing my own morality. Putting myself in Gods’ hands, so to speak, if I believed in one. If I am attacked, it is because I deserve to be attacked and is punishment. If nothing happens, I can let go a little of the guilt and shame and know, for now anyway, I have paid my repentance.
I wasn’t able to confide in Lyn the act for which I am repenting. Not yet. But even breaching and skimming the surface was enough to send my bowels twisting in agony and me running for the bathroom.
Anxiety is so fun and elegant. I can see why all you tumblr kids romanticise it.
I’m somewhere between triggers and relapse, neither one nor the other. My behaviour was so disgusting and repulsive I want to burn my genitals to properly cleanse them of this night.
It’s hard to separate these actions from my self, and continue living with this part of me hidden inside.
I do not understand myself. I just want it to be gone and to forget that I am human. And forget that I am or ever was, a woman.
Most terrifying moment of my high school education when this too happened to me in class.
But even Jesus had two fathers, God and Joseph the Carpenter.
I wish there was a name for this sickness inside of me. Yet surely I must be the only one so severely screwed up in the head to long to be ill.
After the play about PTSD, which ends in a man in a straightjacket encased in walls of white, she asked if we were okay, and then she looked at me, and she really looked in me, and asked if I were okay. Because everyone knows my history confined within psychiatric hospitals. It’s written on my wrists for all to see.
And there was something about the look in her eye and the lilt of her words that sent me spinning. It’s getting harder and harder to resist the temptation, triggered by words like ‘wrist’ or the look of a scratch against alabaster skin. And I can feel the obsession there, ever present. Ready to attach itself to a vulnerable victim.
This isn’t normal.