howling (how long?)
Thursday, August 22nd, 2002 04:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
erikaI couldn't sleep last night, and when I fell, I dreamt of rivers to drown in. And my body is whole still, but I feel shattered. I just want to bleed and bleed and bleed. And they laugh at my tears, and I leave again.
Because, god, it calls to me. And I can't ignore the lure of cutting any longer, that after I've done it, this pain will go away. I won't have to concentrate on my family, or my school, or my future, or my unfixable fucked-up-ness. The way my favorite teacher ignored me because he didn't know what to say, the way my brother steels himself to stay icy calm and yet the muscles in his arm jump and I flinch and lose my train of thought. The homework I'm supposed to do, somewhere in this disorganized chaos, dirty dishes, rotting wood, dying cat with unemptied litterbox of a house -- but you must have that homework neatly done in black ink and white paper, because grades are important and I've fucked mine up so bad that it's not even worth trying anymore, but every year again I think maybe this year, but this is the last and there are no more chances here for me. The way I keep pushing at the people who are most important to me, how I keep fucking relapsing like I can never be truly happy without giving in and begging to go to the doctor, pleading for therapy that I'll never get, because other people need it more and we just don't have the money, we can't ask for help because that's just a crutch, Erika, and you're just melodramatic, it runs in our family, everything runs in our family. Try exercise. Try meditation. Try anything except something which would actually require my parents to pay attention to me and realize something's wrong.
(And I curl up and whisper that I'm sorry, but I can't help myself, please, please stay, I cry, and they all go. And I don't blame them. I'd leave me if I could too. But I can't, anymore, I just don't have the strength. Or is it weakness, like I think it's supposed to be seen as -- weakness to give in. It would feel strong, I think. And I scare myself because there's so much I want, but I tell myself I'll never have it, I don't deserve it, I can't get it. Especially you. And then what's the point in trying?)
The scissors scrape and cut cleanly, perfect straight lines of blood rising to the surface, and I feel whole again.
That's what we like to call irony.
Edited:
I didn't cut. I just needed to think about it.
Because, god, it calls to me. And I can't ignore the lure of cutting any longer, that after I've done it, this pain will go away. I won't have to concentrate on my family, or my school, or my future, or my unfixable fucked-up-ness. The way my favorite teacher ignored me because he didn't know what to say, the way my brother steels himself to stay icy calm and yet the muscles in his arm jump and I flinch and lose my train of thought. The homework I'm supposed to do, somewhere in this disorganized chaos, dirty dishes, rotting wood, dying cat with unemptied litterbox of a house -- but you must have that homework neatly done in black ink and white paper, because grades are important and I've fucked mine up so bad that it's not even worth trying anymore, but every year again I think maybe this year, but this is the last and there are no more chances here for me. The way I keep pushing at the people who are most important to me, how I keep fucking relapsing like I can never be truly happy without giving in and begging to go to the doctor, pleading for therapy that I'll never get, because other people need it more and we just don't have the money, we can't ask for help because that's just a crutch, Erika, and you're just melodramatic, it runs in our family, everything runs in our family. Try exercise. Try meditation. Try anything except something which would actually require my parents to pay attention to me and realize something's wrong.
(And I curl up and whisper that I'm sorry, but I can't help myself, please, please stay, I cry, and they all go. And I don't blame them. I'd leave me if I could too. But I can't, anymore, I just don't have the strength. Or is it weakness, like I think it's supposed to be seen as -- weakness to give in. It would feel strong, I think. And I scare myself because there's so much I want, but I tell myself I'll never have it, I don't deserve it, I can't get it. Especially you. And then what's the point in trying?)
The scissors scrape and cut cleanly, perfect straight lines of blood rising to the surface, and I feel whole again.
That's what we like to call irony.
Edited:
I didn't cut. I just needed to think about it.
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no subject
on Thursday, August 22nd, 2002 03:04 pm (UTC)*hugs*
no subject
on Thursday, August 22nd, 2002 03:35 pm (UTC)no subject
on Thursday, August 22nd, 2002 05:06 pm (UTC)Injury is something I've struggled with for a long time.
no subject
on Thursday, August 22nd, 2002 08:24 pm (UTC)no subject
on Thursday, August 22nd, 2002 09:55 pm (UTC)no subject
on Friday, August 23rd, 2002 08:04 pm (UTC)i haven't cut in almost 6 months. i still have my scars to remind me of the pain i put myself through, to feel, or feel less, i can't be sure now. now that i've healed.
i understand. but i hope you stay out of this (i'm happy you didn't cut, then). all it does, really, is hurt you more. nowadays i look at my arms, and i get cold, and i think to myself, "why have i done this?" the more you do it, the more you'll regret it later. g'luck.