Sunday, July 25, 2010

To fail and to live long

"I wasn’t always a monster, I was a saint.

Now, so broken, so,

Addicted to bad ideas & to the blood that runs
from my eyes and my hands and my throat

Though I have grown older & graver,
the great heart of the world remains ever young.
I wasn’t always a monster, I was a prince.

Now, so broken, so.

Because I can

'Cause no one can stop me

'Cause it makes up for things I lost

Because I'm addicted to bad ideas
and all the beauty in this world"

photo by: Me

I wasn't always a monster, but I was broken. And I wish someone had done something, tried to save me, but no one ever did until I was older and they were paid to do it. I'm not saying I wouldn't have fought off attempts, tried to break free, but at least I would have known I was worth saving. Now I'm too old for that, and there's nothing anyone can make me do. I wish that felt free, but it doesn't. It just feels scary. Because maybe all along I was crying out, even when my scars and cuts were hidden, even when I pretended I had eaten and covered everything up with lies and stories. There was still a part of me desperate for someone to see through it, to just know, without me having to say it.

Now my treatment team is gone. I didn't plan on continuing to see them, but it hurt to be let go of, feels like a slap in the face. 6 years together and she acts like this is nothing more than a business. She knew all my secrets, and I want to snatch them back. I feel alone and abandoned. There were times that they were all I had, the only people looking out for me and making sure I wasn't dead. I didn't want to end things like this.

I failed treatment. I didn't leave better, and I didn't leave dead. Instead I continue floating alone in limbo.

Friday, July 23, 2010

"I would not willingly peel back the scar tissue protecting the deepest chambers of my heart and reveal the bruised hollow pooled with the blood of old wounds-the terror comes just thinking about it-but now, facing darkness I am left with no choice. I love you, and because of that I am going to try and raise the dead."

-How It Ends

Share something with me, a small piece of yourself.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

photo: Suffocating by JolsAriella

Every day feels like it's getting harder and harder to breathe. Giving up would hurt so much less.

Monday, July 12, 2010

modern leper

I don't hide anymore. But not because I'm suddenly comfortable in my own skin, or have acquired a cool fuck it attitude. I just can't do it anymore, I won't. I have spent years underneath stifling sweaters, secrets covered by bangles and armwarmers. And maybe I'm hoping that if I pretend i don't care, eventually I won't. That eventually I will overshadow my scars and flaws, my past, and it will just be a reminder of survival and strength, not the striped marks of mistakes and shame.

I still burn underneath their stares. I see eyes widen and hear voices cut short or change tone, gazes locked to my arms while I speak. Some days I shrink into myself, red cheeks and hunched shoulders. But more frequently I rise up disdainful and bold. I stop what I'm doing at the cash register, and wait to lock eyes with them: "everything okay?" more a dare than anything else. I dare you to question me, to judge. And some days the judgments and questions never seem to end. They range from puzzled ("What is that?") to concerned ("oh my God, what happened?") to disgusted ("Why do you do that to yourself?" "You shouldn't cut yourself" or the almighty "You should really get help."). I've learned to cope. The puzzled and concerned get a "they're just old scars," or "it's personal, nothing I really want to talk about." I spit back sarcastic retorts to the armchair psychologists, raise my eyebrows at their own cigarette and alcohol purchases.

The other night at work was a new one. I stood there in my new dress, the sleeves just passed my shoulders, where the dark purple-pink scars, thick as worms, seem to glow in the fluorescent lighting. The forearms scars snake around white and gnarled. The man buying cigarettes stares blatantly, his eyes amused and impressed. "Can I ask you a question?" I know what's coming, my eyes narrowed, voice steady. "Ok. What?" "Are you like, into pain? Is that what those are about?" I felt the anger and shame burning in the pit of my stomach, but I stayed calm and said, "Excuse me? do I know you? because you're asking a lot of personal questions." He backed down and left. I stood there struggling to breathe in and out.

For some reason that question has latched onto me more than any of the others, even more than the man who stood in line with his friend and literally pointed and laughed at my arms. Maybe it was the assumption that I seek pain, like a game, while in reality my scars are years of fighting off the pain, of trying desperately to spill it out of me. His eyes, his assumptions, made me feel dirty and ashamed. all those stares and words do, really. they enrage me, they take parts from me and turn into something else in their minds, and I want to snatch it back. It's mine, it's me, it's my pain and my past. I carry it around, but it's not for you to see, it's just for me not to hide.

Friday, July 9, 2010

rattling through life

"And the door shut, shut
I was vacuum packed
Shrink-wrapped out of air
And the spine collapsed
And the eyes rolled back
To stare at my starving brain"

eating more, yet still feeling eaten alive, wanting to jump ship from this body.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010


I couldn't stand another second in my room last night so I decided to take a walk and get some coffee. I've gone by the old house a hundred times since we left, but going past on the bus isn't quite the same as walking by. As it came into view I got a knot in my stomach; a mix of familiarity and wrongness, like when you think you see a friend in a crowd of people, lift your hand in greeting, only to realize when they turn around that it isn't them, but a complete stranger. I see my house and yet it isn't my house. I think I feel my father's eyes on me, peering out from where he sits in The Chair. In my mind he will always be in that chair, playing his destructive games, long after he is finally dead. The grass and shrubs are overgrown, my mother's flowers dead and rotting. Halloween stickers are still on a window, and I can see the rood of my old dollhouse. I take this in quickly, ashamed. Afraid that if I pause the passing cars will know I shouldn't be there, about how we had to flee.

I continue on past the house, the walk I used to make every day to high school. A silent angry 15-year-old with pink hair and safety pins, legs symbolically tied in bondage pants, a padlock dangling from my neck. No wonder therapists always had such a field day with me, my body perpetually speaking for me, words I hadn't yet even formed in my head.

Like that 15-year-old, I still feel stifled by myself and this town, by my family. I have found some words, others I'm still too afraid to let out of my head. Part of me can't wait to get away, somewhere where no one knows me, where I can be who I was supposed to be. But supposed-to-be me died when I was five. The only me I can gather up in scraps and pieces is the me that others create in their gaze and words. The sound of my own voice is strange to me, my reflection ever-changing, inner world that floats along without any footing; fragile and ephemeral.