Thanks Laura. =]
Hum hum hum. It really does seem to be getting worse with every update. I shall probably go back and edit at some point, perhaps. But for now..the next bit.
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Often in the midst of insanity, there is a brief moment of clarity that makes you take a step back from what you’re doing and ask why. For a second, the whole thing seems ludicrous – you think about what you’re doing to yourself and it just makes no sense at all. You think back on all the wasted hours you’ve spent hidden away, destroying your body and in turn, destroying your mind. Each cut then turned into a scar on your body, each scar marking another failure on your part, another reason to be ashamed of yourself. In that moment, when you realize these things, it’s almost enough to have you say no more. That’s enough. Stop now before it gets even worse. Then you find yourself sitting on the floor in a daze, holding a fraying tissue to your arm, leg, stomach, hip, wherever, and watch as it slowly turns crimson. You sit there indefinitely; the wet tissues dry into solid brown lumps and the blood congeals repulsively on your body.
It didn’t always end that way. It was the middle of December and I had deadlines looming and nothing to show for them. It was one of the few times I had a peaceful house to myself. My parents were out for the evening and my brother had vanished off to a friend’s house. Instead of watching TV, undisturbed, or playing loud music to have a sing along to, I instead went straight to the kitchen. There was nothing in the fridge, nothing interesting in the cupboards, nothing in particular that took my fancy at all. After checking everything 2 or 3 times and finding nothing to cure my boredom I went back to my room. Out came the box, the tissues and a towel to protect the bed. It became a clinical, routine procedure. There was no emotion in it, no release.
That day I didn’t feel the pressure, or the parting of my skin. I was hardly paying attention until what I felt didn’t mimic the small trickling I had become accustomed to. Instead my arm offered me a rush of warm liquid and a stab of fear as it took me by surprise. This wasn’t control. This was a complete lack of control and a deficit of compassion for myself. How could I ever have craved this? How could I ever have thought this was a solution? I clutched the towel closer to my arm and I could feel the blood seeping slowly through, its warmth turning my stomach as I fully understood what I had just done. I had crossed instinctive boundaries one is so rarely aware of. We’re supposed to protect ourselves from harm; pain is supposed to be a signal that the body is injured and needs tending to. I, instead, had been harming myself. I had been deliberately harming myself.
The bleeding stopped eventually, but I had no idea what I was supposed to do next. I eventually made it to the walk in centre and received my first lot of stitches. It hurt, that's what I can remember of that experience, everything about it hurt physically and emotionally. The scar is a badge of shame that will forever be on my body and my medical records for everyone to see.
Something changed that night, but I was never able to work out what. The world seemed to have tilted slightly and had thrown everything off balance. I was lost, tired and a little bit afraid of myself - of what I may be capable of. Suddenly a whole new world of possibility had opened up to me. My fantasies were a little more real, my dreams that little bit more achievable.