Tearing Apart Self-Harm
When the ship was berated with condemnation… she sits in the bathroom with the blade in her hand she thrusts the blade across her delicate skin till all she sees is crimson red, the tears of her soul, the tears she doesn’t want anyone to see. Her heart beats with self hatred, negative words pulsating through her narrow veins that can barely withstand the inner struggle she harbors deep within she thinks to herself, everyone has their problems, why should they bother with you. You f-ing failure, you’re killing others by doing what you do, you can’t do anything right, you’re too weak to handle life and everyone hates you. What is the meaning of life she asks herself, she dwells in the boat of thoughts that rock crazily in the raging waters of her bipolar emotions. She hates it, loathes it and detests it to the core. There was a girl who wished she just disappeared so the world would be a better place. She stopped telling others her feelings and numbed it with pain instead for she knew that nothing could change. There was a girl and that girl lives in me.
The cold metal slithers across the minefield that is your skin Your skin cracks with craters of disappointment and slashes of sorrow You bask in the indulgent depression You immerse yourself in the deep waters of self hate and blame You bop up and down the surface of the sea gasping for air, trying to stay buoyant. You cling onto the lifeboat that hopefully brings deliverance but it slips by and it’s gone. Your skin encounters the sad countenance of a sharp edge, promising nothing but release. Pent up feelings that you swallowed and gulped down to conceal; it erupts from the blood vessels in your hand and propels your hand to take up the blade and drag it across your skin to paint a crimson scarlet image. The battlefield is marred with bold stains and scabs. This is home.
The sharpness The pain The melancholic relief that comes and goes like a fleeting moment like a temporary fix It doesn’t solve your problems It makes it worse Yet you still do it; why? The compulsion The need The urge to use the blade as your paintbrush Your skin as the blank canvas Textured by the marks of your past your struggles your pain The innermost hurt, shame and anger boil inside of you; like a volcano that has molten oozing from its core. Your heart.The pain creeps up and flows slowly, viscous. It finally erupts from the battlefield that is your skin. The blade tears your skin into two halves; separating gloom and better days The blood flows, forming a river of hope that maybe you could reach the other side The sick masochistic pleasure that relaxes you It gives you the false sense of control that you are so blindly believing in There is a mark; an indication of your struggle; the war you contained within the boundaries of your heart It exploded through a bloody manifestation of impulse and emotions Some say that scars have the power to remind us that our past was real;well they leave more than that It is a gnawing prick that reminds us of how broken we once were; brimming with the raging sea of emotions that causes our bodies to be shipwrecked Regret haunts us Am I really strong enough?
Yes, I have been strong enough
TODAY
I stand here – without any new open slits in my skin – for the past 10 months. In the depth of my depression, i was obstinately certain that i would never break out of the cycle of making at least x number of cuts and scratches per day everyday – a ritual – an unbroken rule to live by for days on end. I never thought these cuts and my pathetic first aid self bandaging skills would all the an oblivion, but for 10 months
It has happened.
From my little hiding spots and pockets where i concealed my tools, my blades and pins have been sealed in an envelope – thrown into the voidness of existence. Those tissues soiled with scarlet went from filling my trash bin to remaining in pristine white in their respective boxes. The white brushstrokes made by aggressive nail clawing faded into the colour of dark beige and never ever surfaced again.
The game of Russian roulette was over.
1…5…10…50…100.. The obsessive calorie counting had spewed into my compulsiveness of rash impulsive slashes – it never was enough – it NEVER will be because we are trained by the very manual of life to overly criticize ourselves and amplify every flaw and discount every merit. I have come to realize that carving lines into my skin just opened myself up to susceptible viruses and bacteria laden with ostracization and misunderstanding. It was never going to work. It was NEVER meant to work for ANYONE.
When those pummeling self hate talk intrudes your peace and serenity, when you feel like you deserve nothing more than the prick and hard pressed slice at your skin…(here’s the part where people usually tell you about the consequences such as death or permanent scars that mar your bodily features and assume that that thought alone can re-calibrate your mind to defy the very voices that hurl irrationality into your ears) Well, i don’t think that an aspect of what they say is undoubtedly necessary as a caution BUT i know for a fact that these consequential death and damaging statements alone aren’t going to propel a distressed individual from continuing this self induced torture and mutilation – in fact it may even exacerbate their will to do it more vigorously to accelerate their path to self destruction – i know i have been there. What i think we need to hear is… our feelings are valid, that we have the right to feel what we do and that pain is relative and we ought not to feel less important just because our problems seem to just be the dwarf next to the giants that everyone us faces. YOUR FEELINGS ARE VALID. But what makes us is that we allow these feelings to wash over us, face it, the more you discount your feelings and belittle your issues, the more you tend to shove it aside and it just accumulates to form this colossal mess. Face the emotion because that is the first step to get out of rock bottom – to acknowledge the feelings you express on your skin – and not to numb it out automatically with a facade of calmness with inner turmoil brimming up to your neck everyday. Don’t assume that one break in your clean streak gives you the right to continue down the rabbit hole as you think to yourself “since i already messed up, i might as well screw up all the way.” NO. All it takes is just that second opportunity you take to give in that incites a downward spiral into the worst relapse ever. Surprise yourself – make yourself stand back in awe in hindsight and let the way you handle your struggles and imperfections be the testament of your inspirational bravery and beauty. THAT is TRUE strength and discipline.
My wings were once torn I never thought i’d be able to fly again because of the seemingly irreparable damage and irreversible trauma that i had inflicted on my body It was impossible to take flight into the world and the enchanting horizon I was weighed down by the heaviness of my bones – dense with worry. I was constrained by the tautness of my muscles – injected with a shot of tension The pointed end of my beak was burned off, leaving me with the blunt uselessness and imprisoned by the inability to peck my way for help Little did i realize that i didn't need my wings to venture into the alleys of this universe I had my whole body – my two legs that could slowly enjoy the images that inched into my vision and appreciate the beauty of the surroundings and immerse myself in the pure bliss of patient pleasure.