*closes fridge door and hears stuff fall in it*
well… sounds like a problem for the next person
It was a struggle in my head; back and forth between hiding the fresh, red lines marking the middle of my left forearm just below my tattoo, and letting the world see just how serious I was about my problem.
Or was it even that serious?
That was my other battle, I couldn’t seem to decide why I had done it.
Some do it because it’s the only thing they think they have any control over. I’m not in control of my life, of my emotions, of my feelings. But this; this I was in control of. How deep, how many, how long, how often, where they were, who got to see and when.
Maybe it was a metaphorical release. I had to supply my body with some sort of venting system for the pain. It had to escape somewhere, somehow. I couldn’t possibly just hold it all inside, and those tiny little slits seemed to do the job at the time.
Or maybe it was my biggest fear… I did it for attention. That’s the answer that made the most sense but it was also the one that made me feel like the biggest piece of shit.
The cuts weren’t huge gashes sliced with reckless abandon, they might not even scar. They looked more like precise cat scratches. They hurt, yes, but it was nowhere near as bad as other people who are addicted to cutting and do it severely. I was too afraid to do that. I wanted to feel some pain, but not that much. Did that mean it wasn’t real? Didn’t the people with the real cutting issues slice long and deep, the point of it to feel that pain? Was I tricking myself into thinking I was sicker than I was? Or was that thought just what was needed to prove my insanity?
I couldn’t be sure, but I knew I should hide it no matter what the reason was. I didn’t do often, it wasn’t an issue. I had only done it a couple of times and who knows when it will happen again? Hopefully never… Hiding it is a task, especially since I live with my longterm boyfriend. We sleep in the same bed, change in front of each other, snuggle, shower together, hold hands; and being only early Septmeber in New England there was still sure to be at least a couple more days where it would be too warm to wear a sweatshirt.
I didn’t want him to find out because I didn’t want him to worry. I didn’t want a lecture, and I really didn’t want to be admitted into the hospital. I was terrified at the thought of it. Being admitted into the Behavioral Health Unit was like my own personal hell that I was trying to avoid. I was adamant that I wasn’t bad enough to be there, but would other people see it that way? I’d dropped a lot of wait really fast, had been struggling with severe depression and anxiety, and had told a select few people who were very close to me of my thoughts of suicide. But I still remained firm of the fact that my problem was not bad enough for me to be admitted or to call 911.
The cuts were really nothing. Sensitive from dragging the razor back and forth, but like I said, they were thin like cat scratches. There’s was about 12 lines in a row, and that was why I had to hide it. I couldn’t tell people it was actually a cat because the lines, although not perfectly straight, were one on top of the other in one location on my arm. It was obvious that it was done intentionally, but it was also obvious that it would heal in no time. No one would see it that way, of course… The fact that I did it is reason enough to do to a doctor, but I already told the doctors I had no thoughts of hurting myself and no plan for suicide. If they found out I lied that would make future appointments more annoying and the chance of me being admitted would increase. I wouldn’t be trusted with my own medication, with anything sharp. I would be more of a burden of the people I loved because now they have to make sure Liz doesn’t hurt herself.
I will not turn into my sister. I will not have to be babysat and watched out for and taken care of to make sure I don’t do anything stupid. I won’t have people questioning my stability, my maturity, my intelligence, and my reasoning. I’m smart and logical and if people discredited me for not having a grasp of my emotions I would be crushed.
Yes, I’m crazy and emotional and I have no idea what’s going on with my mind and body, but I’m very logical and can help anyone else with almost any problem. I can’t take my own advice, that doesn’t mean others shouldn’t. Once people find out you have issues you’re struggling with, as soon as you try to help them they turn it around on you.
A small chuckle followed by, “I’m sorry, that’s just kind of funny coming from you.”
I know the steps that should be taken to fix my problems. I know what helps the majority of people, I know what’s helped people I’m close with, but it’s different when it’s you. If I found out someone I loved was cutting themselves, no matter how bad it was, I would try to convince them to go to a doctor, I would check up on them all the time and make sure they were ok, ask if they needed anything.
But no, no one can find out that I do it. No one needs to be worrying about that. Shit’s hard enough right now without people worrying about an issue I’m blowing out of proportion.
I have enough issues people do know about and I struggle enough with that.
No one needs to know.
No one can ever know.
I will hide it as long as I can.
And because of this pain from this secret I bare I open up another vent in my arm, just below the bird with spread wings flying free from its cage.
packs 2 hours before leaving for a trip
unpacks 3 months after coming home
happy birthday someone
I like reblog going this becaUSE WHAT IF YOU SAW THIS ON YOUR BIRTHDAY HOW COOL WOULD THAT BE
friendly reminder that you can fight for equality without shitting on other people’s lifestyles
no one seems to notice the fresh cuts on my arm
that’s reassuring and comforting