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(Triggering -SH) Eventful Day,
Posted October 18th 2009 at 11:48 PM by ThoughtManifest
Updated October 19th 2009 at 01:36 AM by ThoughtManifest
Updated October 19th 2009 at 01:36 AM by ThoughtManifest
Things have been strange lately. On the surface it seems like everything is perfect; I know where I'm going to college, my grades are doing just fine, my family isn't in any horrible financial struggle, and I have hours and hours of free time to fill. But for the first time today I scratched myself knowing full well that it was self harm. I had always done it before when things just got way too intense, left scars on my arm that are still here from 6+ months ago, but it was always an automatic response. I had never really thought about it, it was just something that helped relieve the pressure.
I had always thought about cutting myself with various knives around the house, but had never done it because I knew that they weren't sanitary. How ridiculous is that-- I'm fine with the cutting, but god-forbid I get an infection. Then today I was sitting around, not doing my homework, and thinking about the box cutters up in the garage. I felt on my arm where I wanted to make the cut, where I wanted to leave a mark, and felt like I needed to go and make that reality. So I went up there and stared at them for a little while and found a box of completely new replacement razors. But something didn't feel right. Maybe it was because they were my uncle's box cutters, something that would be missed if I took them. Maybe not.
So I went up to my mother's sewing kit and got a few safety pins, stopped by the bathroom to pick up some alcohol wipes, and went to the kitchen. This is a first, it was never structured before, I had never prepared anything before, but now I was. I only made seven scratches that stuck around, there wasn't any blood. Hell, I don't even care about the blood. What mattered was leaving a mark, some kind of line that marred my skin. I don't know why this is what I strive for, why I'm not like most other teenagers who love the razors and love the blood. I just want a mark that was made by me, on me, and only for me. Doesn't interest me in the slightest to have anyone see them. I have a feeling I'll have a problem resisting tattoos when I'm old enough to get them.
I got my marks, but they're fading quickly. I don't have enough alcohol wipes to do it too many times, my parents would be sure to notice them disappearing from their bathroom, but I may be able to get more on my own. Just have to find a time, or a reason, to get my own box.
You know, it's like all of those walls and protections I set up for myself to hide behind over the years are breaking down. Like now that I've gotten my acceptance, I'm letting go of the strategies that helped me get it. I never wore make-up because I knew that the style I'd go for would be completely different from what my parents would like, and that would be too big of a distraction from school. I never experimented with my clothes because I knew that the look I'd achieve would alienate me from my peers, and thus alienate me from my potential. I had to look the part to get a lot of the support I got from my school's administration and my teachers, no one would take me seriously if I looked reminiscent of a goth or emo style. Which is silly, because I am neither of those things, and I know that. I just like to incorporate their styles into my own mix, but no one would understand that.
I have also started to listen to whatever music I'd like to, without regard to what my parents would think. This was out of the question before. I've heard metal and satanic rock (and I mean satanic, they label themselves satanists and base their lyrics off of inflammatory material, kind of kooky people) and have been able to appreciate them, doesn't mean I like it per se, but it'd be fine to put on every once in awhile. I don't go to bed at a certain time every night, and most incredible of all, I'm actually writing down my emotions. Completely uncensored and real emotions are going down on paper, hidden away for sure, but there none the less.
I'm just wondering if these things will take me down before I can reach my full potential. I doubt I'd let myself do that, but at what price? How much longer can I pretend that these parts of me don't exist? I guess at this point it doesn't really matter. For the next 10 months all I have to do is live and keep my parents from thinking that I can't handle living on my own. If they did that, I'm going to the local college and that would destroy me. It's not like I want to kill myself, and it's not a call for attention, it's just something that makes me feel better. Like medication for someone else, or food for another. If I were really suicidal, meaning I saw no point in living and why the hell am I still trying, then I'd be out looking for drugs or stealing my mother's pain meds. But I'm not. I practically have a pharmacy living at home with a million different pills that I could overdose on, but I feel no need to. My scratching is just a quirk in my personality that I almost see no point in changing.
I'd never honestly looked at it before.
I had always thought about cutting myself with various knives around the house, but had never done it because I knew that they weren't sanitary. How ridiculous is that-- I'm fine with the cutting, but god-forbid I get an infection. Then today I was sitting around, not doing my homework, and thinking about the box cutters up in the garage. I felt on my arm where I wanted to make the cut, where I wanted to leave a mark, and felt like I needed to go and make that reality. So I went up there and stared at them for a little while and found a box of completely new replacement razors. But something didn't feel right. Maybe it was because they were my uncle's box cutters, something that would be missed if I took them. Maybe not.
So I went up to my mother's sewing kit and got a few safety pins, stopped by the bathroom to pick up some alcohol wipes, and went to the kitchen. This is a first, it was never structured before, I had never prepared anything before, but now I was. I only made seven scratches that stuck around, there wasn't any blood. Hell, I don't even care about the blood. What mattered was leaving a mark, some kind of line that marred my skin. I don't know why this is what I strive for, why I'm not like most other teenagers who love the razors and love the blood. I just want a mark that was made by me, on me, and only for me. Doesn't interest me in the slightest to have anyone see them. I have a feeling I'll have a problem resisting tattoos when I'm old enough to get them.
I got my marks, but they're fading quickly. I don't have enough alcohol wipes to do it too many times, my parents would be sure to notice them disappearing from their bathroom, but I may be able to get more on my own. Just have to find a time, or a reason, to get my own box.
You know, it's like all of those walls and protections I set up for myself to hide behind over the years are breaking down. Like now that I've gotten my acceptance, I'm letting go of the strategies that helped me get it. I never wore make-up because I knew that the style I'd go for would be completely different from what my parents would like, and that would be too big of a distraction from school. I never experimented with my clothes because I knew that the look I'd achieve would alienate me from my peers, and thus alienate me from my potential. I had to look the part to get a lot of the support I got from my school's administration and my teachers, no one would take me seriously if I looked reminiscent of a goth or emo style. Which is silly, because I am neither of those things, and I know that. I just like to incorporate their styles into my own mix, but no one would understand that.
I have also started to listen to whatever music I'd like to, without regard to what my parents would think. This was out of the question before. I've heard metal and satanic rock (and I mean satanic, they label themselves satanists and base their lyrics off of inflammatory material, kind of kooky people) and have been able to appreciate them, doesn't mean I like it per se, but it'd be fine to put on every once in awhile. I don't go to bed at a certain time every night, and most incredible of all, I'm actually writing down my emotions. Completely uncensored and real emotions are going down on paper, hidden away for sure, but there none the less.
I'm just wondering if these things will take me down before I can reach my full potential. I doubt I'd let myself do that, but at what price? How much longer can I pretend that these parts of me don't exist? I guess at this point it doesn't really matter. For the next 10 months all I have to do is live and keep my parents from thinking that I can't handle living on my own. If they did that, I'm going to the local college and that would destroy me. It's not like I want to kill myself, and it's not a call for attention, it's just something that makes me feel better. Like medication for someone else, or food for another. If I were really suicidal, meaning I saw no point in living and why the hell am I still trying, then I'd be out looking for drugs or stealing my mother's pain meds. But I'm not. I practically have a pharmacy living at home with a million different pills that I could overdose on, but I feel no need to. My scratching is just a quirk in my personality that I almost see no point in changing.
I'd never honestly looked at it before.
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