Sunday, June 15, 2014

White Knuckle

They tell me that everyone is a little crazy. Am I the only one that can't handle my crazy? Or is my crazy just a little more crazy than your average crazy? Crazy is one thing I'd love to be average at but somehow I doubt that I am. I'm part of a statistic, but then so is everyone. We're just part of different statistics, that's all.

But I don't want to be part of the percentage of American males who struggles with mental illness. I don't want my history of self-harm, or my suicide attempt, or my eating disorder for that matter, following me everywhere I go, biting at my heels constantly and forever standing between me and letting my guard down. But I can't erase the past. My only hope is to join a new statistic of those who recover from the above mentioned marks against one's permanent record. And I'd like to, I really would; but I'm still holding on to so much and I refuse to just let it all go.

Why? Why can't I just walk away from all of the bullshit in my past and move on with my life? Because memories don't die easy, and memories of the pain are being relived even as I write this. I'm stuck because I can't seem to accept that people aren't necessarily going to treat me in the ways I have been treated in the past. I don't even know if I want to accept it. What excuse would I have to hurt myself if I didn't have these fears and if I didn't tell myself all of these elaborate stories about how people are out to break my heart? It's already broken, can't you see? It hasn't been whole in years.

The truth is that I need to feel this way. I need to feel this way because I know that there is no coming back from feeling like this so many nights in a row without spilling a little blood. It may not be tonight, but I know at this point that it will happen sooner or later. Just keep holding on and holding out. One night at a time and every night that passes is a small victory. Who am I kidding? Every night that I make it through unmarked is a huge victory right now, because the more important truth is that I enjoy it. It. Cutting, burning, scratching, bleeding. I don't enjoy feeling the way that I feel right now, the moments leading up to the action, but experiencing the release of touching sharpened metal to virgin skin is something that can't be put into words. It's as if all of my poisoned thoughts just flow out of my open wounds and I can finally breathe. It's as if a weight is instantly lifted from my chest and I can stand tall and proud once more. And it's as if I have finally found my way home. The adrenalin gets you high and feeling so much of your own blood pouring freely from your veins is cleansing. My sins are erased, the lies I told just evaporate into the night, and I am free of worry for one beautiful, glorious, fleeting moment.

I don't know what others would tell you, but I will tell you that self-harm is addictive. It's like jumping out of a fucking airplane, only better. It's that feeling that nothing else in the whole world matters anymore that keeps you coming back. Again and again and again, until you're running out of skin and you can't hide your habit from the people around you anymore. Suddenly everyone can see what a fragile, broken little thing you really are. Some see these scars and believe they show courage or strength, but they represent neither. They are only the fear to change and grow, manifest in something grotesque during the moments(or lifetimes) that exist between rational thoughts. There is no strength in these acts, only cowardice.

Why didn't you just reach out? They'll ask me when it's all over and done with. And I'll respond, because I didn't want to be saved. Because I wanted to go through with this and I didn't want anyone talking me out of it. Because I had had enough of feeling so awful and I needed to let the demons inside of me escape from beneath my skin. Because it's the only way, I'll say. And they'll tell me that I need help and they'll probably be right about that but the problem is that I only need help occasionally. I don't feel like this all the time and if I'm in an environment where I can't hurt myself then I don't feel like this at all. But I can't be in that place all the time because life goes on without me in the real world and I have responsibilities out here. They may be right, but seeking help is a delicate process and it needs to be the type of help that allows me to continue living in the free world. And aren't I already seeking that help? Don't I go to groups, and see a therapist, and visit with a useless psychiatrist? Surely there is something more out there for people who struggle with these demons.

And perhaps I will find that help, if I choose to go looking for it. For now though, it seems that I am content to grit my teeth and hold on with white knuckles through the urges in the hopes that these feelings too shall pass. And I know that they will. Whether they pass without incident is another story but one way or another I know that I will not feel this way forever. So I'm holding on and I'm holding out in hopes of the brighter days that I know lie somewhere in my future. Those days are out there, waiting for me to find them because I am destined for more than nights like these when the blade looks oh so tempting and bleeding seems like my only way out.

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