Prompted by an episodic relapse into self-harm at eighteen, I sat at my old desktop and began writing. Of course, this was before the you-know-what hit the fan (not sure how I feel about being profane here)–before the losses, reclamations, and healing. It’s funny how some things change and others stay the same. Oh how life teaches you things about yourself.
On a different note, I really have to chuckle at how still-in-it’s-infancy my writing was.
Here’s to self-improvement.
A Description of the Unspoken
With every event, every negative experience in my life, I wish for it to manifest itself into something greater—a story to tell, a constructive learning experience, everything and anything other than what it truly is or has already been.
This is one of many.
I’m heading nowhere, inundated with convoluted and disturbing thoughts of destruction. I’m trying to make sense of what would strike anyone of any sort of normalcy as something trivial and fruitless. I’m imagining this in sheer retrospection to only a few moments past.
Tears swell in my eyes, and I forcefully bite my lower lip and fight them back. I can’t cry. I won’t cry. I won’t allow you to exploit my vulnerability—I refuse. No, not again; not this time.
Strength, although fleeting and hollow in its entirety, is my only option at this point. “Empty actions, empty thoughts; if you refuse to acknowledge what is, then it never has been and never will be”, I condition myself to believe, obviously on a more commonsensical level. I’m trying effortlessly to demonstrate even the slightest measure of strength, simply for the sheer sake of security and fortification against you and your vile, malevolent dictations.
My thoughts are clearer now, and I remember.
I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, unaccompanied, and basking in my own, self-degenerative limelight; to eventually be swallowed whole by this menacing, distorted cloud of darkness. You’ve succeeded in deeming me insignificant, and now my physical solitude and emotional annulment compliment each other perfectly. I feel lifeless, pathetic, and fragile; and more within, I feel nothing. Nothing at all.
Nothingness is treacherous, for it reminds me of an ailing past, full of nothing, nothing other than voluntary starvation and the skin’s startling affair with razor blades and blood loss.
The incessant nothingness finally abates, and I’m overwhelmed with sadness—the same sadness I’d rejected and disregarded numerous times before. I shriek hysterically, and tightly lock my right fist, taking a swing at the soft tissues of my abdominal area. I do this repetitively over and over again, and yet, for whatever reason, there’s no release, and I’m unable to evade the burdens of the anticipated shame, and unremitting desire that’s associated with the likes of self-destruction.
I examine the scars running both vertically and horizontally across the skin of my upper-thighs; a web of pink and white keloided lines, intersecting in some areas and creating parallel lines in others, reflecting what I‘d believed to be a superficially immaculate account of self-mutilation. The patches of scars are purely battle wounds of precedent afflictions, and although masked from the world, somewhere in the depths of my mind, I realized that I’d worn them proudly.
I hold my breath. I’m still imagining this. I tell myself this isn’t real. None of it. Gripping a pair of scissors, these reproachful thoughts coursing through my mind are consuming me, as the dark cloud drifts overhead:
I tell myself these things, and that’s precisely when the dissociation emerges, distinguishing and defining the blurred edges of this grim, extraordinarily surreal feeling. It isn’t me anymore; it’s you, the decipherable voice of my past, the self in my head relentlessly scrutinizing my every move, my every bite of food, my every dazzling and inexcusable moment, my everything. Everything I am.
My head and my heart linger in two separate places, and I realize that I’m deteriorating from within. I can literally feel myself psychosomatically falling apart as you tear me to shreds.
And this is when the scissors meet the skin. The jagged edge of the blade tears open the skin of my calf. This oh-so familiar and incredible release, this inexpressible psychological liberation bursts forth, pouring into and over the cavities where completion once stood in existence, filling in the empty spaces, and I’m free at last.
The blood wells at the serration of the skin; my heart and my head are steadily unified, and for a very brief moment, I’m okay. Calm, collected, and momentarily content.
I don’t tend to the wounds, not necessarily because I’ve forgotten or intend to do it later, but purely because they’re small, perfect, and divine. With every morsel of food that passes the lips, perfection is destroyed. Shattered. Impossible. Inconceivable. I can no longer grapple with the plights of self-starvation, but these, these cuts, they’re mine. I now remember that having the ability to alleviate the perplexities of depression is the closest thing to powerful I’ve ever felt. Drawing sadness upon the skin, sketching it with sharp metal, and turning an incommunicable affliction into something both tangible and evident—that’s control. I accredit myself for this perfection; it’s something that’s mine, and nobody else’s.
The scissors remain at my side as I carefully examine the small beads of blood enlarge and coalesce, forming a single, glowing crimson-colored bubble. This act of self-mutilation disguises itself as an unusual, yet comforting form of satisfying indulgence. Nobody can take this away.
Of course, none of this is real. I remind myself of this as I roll down my legging, realizing that you’re gone.
Finally, the voice leaves me at peace. In pieces.
I suddenly stand, my legs easily give way and I fall to my knees. I’m looking up. Looking at nothing, and yet, searching for something. It strays far beyond the help of any therapist, and even further from the parameters of any psychiatric infirmary. I’ve been there, I know.
It’s not about mom or dad. It has no relevance to the likes of another, nor my childhood; I grow wearisome from talking about it, repeating myself over and over again, relentlessly trying to make sense of the senseless, and ultimately going nowhere.
Something is not sustenance, material affluence, or physical precision; it’s derivation beyond the sharpened edge of a razorblade, and deeper than the skin that it severs.
It’s not self-centered, attention-seeking, disgusting, or crazy.
It’s more about wanting to feel loved than anything else, about wanting to elude the hindrance of numbness, to maintain the connectivity between your heart and head, and more than anything, to feel. To feel happy, to feel contented, to feel loved, to feel connected, and to feel alive.
Of course, this is insignificant to me. The familiarities with self-realization and epiphanies of sudden understanding are poured out once again, leaving me dry, desolate, and in need of the things that I’ve mentioned. And again, I tell myself this isn’t real. None of it.
I look down, forgetting about the cuts, the scissors, and the feelings that rendered a mutual need for them both.
I’ll recollect myself and execute another day’s worth of this. Striving for supposed perfection, the kind that can’t be defined in the countless ways that I’ve tried to make it so. My life is still in discord. The line shines through and swiftly collapses, returning to darkness, and in spite of everything, I’m still alive.
I awaken, and I’m still alive.
None of this was real—none of it.
It was a mere transitory moment in time during which my life stood still.
Besides, we all have something; we all need something.
We all have an inner-voice.
I was never alone.