I'll share with you a little irony; I've been feeling as of late the incessant and quite frightening urge to cut once again, and have been ruminating on my reasons for doing so, how they've changed, and how I want to do so. Then last night, Dad asked why anyone would ever want to cut themselves. This somewhat gave me a tad bit of surprise as I'm aware of his own issues with depression; I know Brittany has it, and has also had periods of time where she's wanted to harm herself. Why not my father? He understand suicidal thoughts, but not self harm; how would that work? We started attempting to explain, and it really is such a difficult thing.
Now, I've always been a knife person-- I find them beautiful, I love the control they give, and I've always just generally held a certain place in my heart for the things, I've never known exactly why. All reasons aside, you can imagine that when feeling this inner craving for self abuse, I would want to do so with a knife. I've always personally had a paring knife in mind when I imagine it (I've done this an innumerable amount of times throughout my years of depression), and for some reason, I've never honestly understood why someone would open their own wrists unless their intent was death.
To me, cutting is such a personal thing, something that you do to cope, something beautiful and frightening; why would you put that on display for everyone to see? I feel I would delve so deeply into the action that my feelings and urges would lead me to going a bit too far in a moment of stupidity, and possibly do something with no fix. No, I've always had this small dream in my head, this little, beautiful urge to slice my thighs open, personal and right in front of my face, somewhere no one else would see unless I let them... My heart beats with more vigor just thinking about it, honestly. And I know that people who don't experience the urge would find that disgusting, terrifying, even. But it's something one can't easily explain, it really is something I crave.
I quote Emilie Autumn, who expressed it quite adequately: " I had always been ashamed of being a manic depressive. What right have I, I thought, and still do think, to be depressed when there are people in this world who suffer so much worse in their lives than I? I was ashamed to have a disease that nobody could see, but now, I had proof. I had visible symptoms, and I wouldn't have to explain myself anymore." I don't quite relate to her in the sense that I want people to see the proof of my afflictions... But more to myself. It's such a relief to manifest it, I think; it's quite similar to crying in release.
As Brittany mentioned, it is somewhat a comparison to any pain being experienced otherwise; it's a lot easier to focus on something physical than all the terrifying thoughts racing around your mind. Again I quote: "How is it considered perfectly acceptable that I am harmed by a dozen outside forces, in a dozen ways, from abuse, from rape, from the mundane cruelties of life that affect us all, from brutal heartbreak, from violent lovers, from dishonest friends, and yet I have no right to harm, even superficially, myself? Everything that is done to me from the outside-- all of that I am advised and expected to "get over" and "forgive," and I can even pay a therapist hundreds of dollars an hour to teach me how to do this (there are a lot of people making money off of my pain). But I am not allowed to forgive myself, even if I wanted to, because no one will forgive me. In comparison to all life's ills, a cut on my flesh-- a cut, unlike the other hurts we all receive, will heal relatively well-- is nothing. Nothing." I've always somewhat wondered why people cared about something I wanted done to my own body, why if I felt inflicting pain upon myself to be acceptable, they had the right to tell me it wasn't. I suppose, in all fairness, that was before friends of mine began doing it; as soon as people I loved began to hurt themselves, I got the other perspective.
In all honesty, I don't clearly know what I'm driving at in this small rambling. It would probably seem to be advocating self harm, or justifying... But I feel, and perhaps it's true, that this has been more a chance of mine to sort out my thoughts on the matter; a small compilation of thoughts. And I do have many more, with numerous quotes from several different sources, but I'm not sure I want to post them... I'm sure, unfortunately, that a very many of you lose respect for me just in the reading through of this small confession and contemplation, and that is a force compelling me to cease writing immediately. And yet, a part of me doesn't care because it is how I think, and this is who I am; anyone who can't accept that part of me is someone that can't handle to become close with me, and about whose opinions I shouldn't worry myself.
Either way, I do suppose I should sleep now... It is 1:00 AM, and I do have a funeral to attend tomorrow. Perhaps I'll post more passing thoughts then.
Loves and leeches,
Lashy
No comments:
Post a Comment