Wow. These are really good. I haven't read all of them. Maybe three. But I really like them. It reminds me of myself. It nice to read something I can relate to. :) *keeps reading*
I also admire you for taking the first step and getting help, wish I was brave enough
I just wanted to say that telling was BY FAR the scariest part of getting help. Once I told and things with my mom settled down (maybe a month or two of awkwardness. We don't talk about my cutting at all) things really have gotten better. As is (I hope) obvious, I still do worry a lot about seeing my counselor, BUT it is worth it and helpful in the long run AND it gets a bit easier every time.
It is… crazy-amazing to have someone who actually knows and can speak about my SI. Awkward and personal and sensitive, but kind of liberating, you know? Even just the idea of being able to show someone, to tell someone, the ability to imagine explaining to someone what is going on and how you feel and being heard and not interrupted or told to toughen up or reminded that someone else has a harder life or thought of as disturbing or attention-seeking or just completely not-understandable is such a relief.
I'm just trying to say that if you'd like to get help but are scared to, I understand. It is NOT easy to tell and it DOES change things (although you can influence how much your life is changed by who you tell and when and if you get help, etc) but that it is most definitely worth seeking support from someone.
If nothing else helpful has come from having someone to talk to, I've found that the idea of being asked why I cut, what I was feeling and what caused it and what I was thinking, has helped me to resist cutting at times. And the idea of being able to tell him things has also allowed me to avoid cutting by journaling to him or imaging what I would say, etc. For me, its been a huge help.
Sorry, I tend to ramble a LOT and I suppose you weren't exactly looking for a response… but you made me think of all this and I wanted to tell you that although it is dead-frightening, I think it is worth the anxiety to tell someone.
Silence can be golden but gold can sometimes suffocate
Like that girl in that James Bond film, too late to respirate
Tragedy can be plain to see with lights and sirens
But sometimes it ain't quite so clear, Domestic Silence
~Scroobius Pip
Thanks... its good to hear. I wish I was as strong as you, I really do
"Pain, you just have to ride it out, hope it goes away on its own, hope the wound that caused it heals. There are no solutions, no easy answers, you just breath deep and wait for it to subside. Most of the time pain can be managed but sometimes the pain gets you where you least expect it. Hits way below the belt and doesn't let up. Pain, you just have to fight through, because the truth is you can't outrun it and life always makes more."
So… I have had a lot more appointments, but haven't written them up. This is a tiny bit of the last appointment I had with Adam (as he was a student, he has now left after his one year thingy).
On my artwork thread, I also have a series of drawings I made that involve the idea of Adam helping me stop self harming. I considered putting them in here, but didn't want to double-post.
The following content has been hidden - Reason : The story involves a general description of my injuries
"canishowyou'causeiwontbeabletoshowanyoneforalongt ime?" the words rushed out between hands held defensively before lips, clutching long hair in tight fingers with a grip that had somehow gotten the idea that he might attack at any moment - reach out his hands to touch me in a contact so Real it would burn in echoing tingles.
"What?" he said, "You spoke so quietly." And I knew he hadn't heard me. And I knew I had mumbled and rushed and slid a thin, whispered breath out like a race horse of white, cold-morning mist. I knew - and I couldn't say it again.
No, I shook my head. No I didn't mean it I tried to say with my head that went back and forth but Inside me I did mean it and so I looked at the chair that is black and purple in little woven squares because I couldn't meet his eyes and I smiled because I was so uncomfortable so the smile was gross and had eyebrows that pinched up at the center and down at the sides because it was a smile that was hurting and scared and upset Inside and I couldn't, couldn't say it again because it was bad, so bad, so STUPID to say --
"Did you say 'can I show you'?" he asked.
He had heard. How…?
"yes" I said quietly, lips small together, chin tucked down, shoulders hunched. I couldn't look at him. It was so bad of me. I'm not supposed to show. It's not good. It is bad. It is attention seeking. But it is so heavy some days, the long sleeves that can never move up. It is so much sometimes. And - I regretted the other times I wanted to show but didn't. And I wouldn't get the chance for a long time. And never with Adam.
He said, "Yes, you can show me." And then he added, "If it's an appropriate place." and I said "yes" because I'd only ever meant to show him my arm. And he let me have the silence and the time and I looked at him and I looked at the Nothing between us and the seconds were long and many, and then
I pulled up my sleeve.
There was no magic. The moment was empty, silent, still. And that was what made it so real.
It was me, staring at the same white and pink and red scars that I have seen hundreds, maybe thousands of times. Just me, looking at my arm, black volleyball sleeve pushed up near my elbow and palm up and arm extended so casually. White skin, pink lines, silver lines, pink blotches, purple lines. Just a patch of marks on a limb. Adam was silent in the background, out of eye sight. I looked for a while. The burns were pink, nearly all healed. I lifted my hand to my face, showing him the back of my arm for a moment where two burns were near healed then I pulled my sleeve back up.
He thought for a moment. I looked at him. Quiet. He was calm. Passive. Not emotionless, but not emotion-full. Passive. Calm. Gentle.
He asked, "Does it hurt?"
I was surprised. "What?"
"Does your arm hurt?" he asked.
"No." I said. My eyes were big. I felt like I was looking at someone who was me but who was not me and I was looking into her eyes and they were honest and open. No, I thought in my head. No. It is healed.
But the words stayed in my head. They stayed afterwards and the next day and they are still in my head and saying "Does it hurt?…your arm?… no…no…no…Does it hurt?" and I look at my arm and I think of my arm and how it looked and I think of his words. "Does it hurt?" and I realized - the pink he saw was not healing to his eyes. The scars he saw were not fading and less than before. The scars he saw were many more than he saw last time, almost a year ago, and they were red with some sort of pain he knows I feel and do not express right. Somehow, he saw my scars with eyes much different than mine. Mine were cold. Harder. Like my hands that scrub so hard over cuts, uncaring, rough. His were like hands that dab and brush lightly over and around the injury because it is on someone else and you care about them and you don't know what it feels like to them exactly and you don't want to hurt them so you are slow and gentle and delicate. His eyes looked at lines of scar tissue and the remnants of scabs and the redness of recent burns and saw something of what had caused them. I looked at them, and saw no such thing. And so his words rattle around my mind because -
because I wish I could have eyes like that. And because he does, because his eyes saw all of that in me - I wasn't just some kid who showed up every once in a while to see him for an hour. He - I -
his words said that i meant something to him. And that is the most beautiful thing.
Silence can be golden but gold can sometimes suffocate
Like that girl in that James Bond film, too late to respirate
Tragedy can be plain to see with lights and sirens
But sometimes it ain't quite so clear, Domestic Silence
~Scroobius Pip
I know you wrote this almost a year ago, and you're probably wondering how the hell I found it, but I'm just going to bump it because it's amazing, and you're amazing, and people need to read this because it's amazing.
You're an amazing writer, Erynn! Amazing amazing amazing. xxxxx
"And sometimes when our fights begin,
I think I'll let the Dragons win...
And then I think perhaps I won't,
Because they're Dragons, and I don't."
I know this is an old thread. And I don't have more story to write, but... I just wanted to say that I miss him. I've seen other counselors, and I've gotten a lot better at talking. And maybe even if I saw him again it wouldn't be as helpful or special because I'm in such a different place now. But I miss him and the probably-very-one-sided relationship we had. He meant so much to me.
I wish I had a way to thank him. I guess that's what these little stories tried to do. Or the pictures I drew. I never did thank him. I was way too uncomfortable with my own voice to offer up something that personal. But... thank you. That's what I want to say. Thank you Adam for creating a safe place for me where I was Seen and Heard in ways I hadn't been before.
I don't know what would've happened if I had another bad experience with counseling that year, but as it was, I've been able to move forward and see other counselors and learn other things about coping skills and my thoughts and talking about my feelings. I think I've come pretty far actually, from that year. Some ups, some downs, and certainly not Recovered completely, but... better in some really important ways. I'm glad I wrote all that down. It's allowed me to hold onto those times. I just wish I could make sure he knew he helped me, because I worry I may not have given him that impression. But he did. He helped me a lot.
Silence can be golden but gold can sometimes suffocate
Like that girl in that James Bond film, too late to respirate
Tragedy can be plain to see with lights and sirens
But sometimes it ain't quite so clear, Domestic Silence
~Scroobius Pip
Thank you Ailsa for bumping this. I started reading at the end and then went back and read it all. Rynn, you are an amazing writer. I really couldn't stop until I had read it all and I wish there was more. I can imagine you becoming a writer and this being the beginning of an amazing book. I am struggling to imagine someone so young writing with such insight and how captivating it is. I am in awe of your talent. It is odd how I thought that my relationship with therapists who I have really connected with was unique and yet so much of what you have written I can relate to. Thank you for sharing.
I have loved reading through this!!! I can identify with small parts of it because of the secrecy but it is soo nice to read it and to hear your thoughts about him too because the therapeutic relationship is just that! A two way thing and it is interesting to hear the inner voice of the person sometimes! Thanks.
