'Cause one day they're gonna slip on 'em...
I have only confessed to self injuring a handful of times... and only once to someone who was not my peer. My grandmother finding out I've been cutting has always been one of the most painful experiences for me... And very recently, when I finally decided I Really Needed Help, I asked for a butterfly bandage (the biggest one I had at the moment was having trouble staying closed) and she did me one better: she gauzed and bandaged me right then and there. It is one of the very precious few memories I have of feeling really cared for, ever. She plied me with food that night, too, and had me watch a movie with her. We had tea. I slept in her bed next to her, on the heating pad and curled around one of her pillows.
That was about a week ago, now. Those cuts are a week old and mostly just inconsequential scabs... and it very much makes me want to cut again. But just knowing that I have told my grandmother, knowing she's probably been worried about me, makes me feel guilty about doing it in a way that I usually do not.
So. I got myself a felt-tipped pen and wrote the following:
Be kind to yourself
You are not worthless
You are worthy of being cherished
It's okay to take care of yourself
You don't deserve to be hurt
You are beautiful
You are loved
Your passion is a blessing
You're not alone
And finally,
You are kind and not horrible
I could have gone on, but there were healing scars I didn't want to take the chance of infecting, and by the time I'd written this, anyway, I was too on edge and close to crying. Some of these are obvious, and a few are not. The one about passion is written down because, a lot of the time, I feel as if I am simply too much: too tall, too loud, too moody, too much fixating, too self absorbed. I am passionate about certain things to such a degree that I can get into knock-down, drag-out fights with my best friend at the drop of a hat over those subjects. A lot of the time I'm annoyed by how combative I am and I wish sometimes I could just chill out... But at the end of the day, I'd rather be passionate and Too Much, than be boring.
It's so hard, late at night when I'm very alone, to have even a speck of kindness for myself. I don't like myself and I don't like having to live with me all the time. It's exhausting. Living with an alcoholic and a woman whose capacity for denial surpasses even my own is equally exhausting. Chronic, long-term depression is incredibly exhausting... It's no wonder I'm tired all the time.
I decided to start this mostly anonymous blog so I'd have somewhere to put these thoughts that wasn't my personal Tumblr. I have something like four real life friends on there as well as at least one family member, and who knows who else. This blog is meant as an emotional vent that is entirely uncensored, but much more well formatted than Tumblr usually leads me to be. I guess, currently, I'll be detailing the process of moving (when am I not moving?) back into my grandmother's home and how my struggles with depression are going. Hopefully in time I will be able to manage my illness, and maybe this blog will turn a little more lighthearted: kink, art, nerdy stuff. But for now, it is my emotional baggage dropzone.
-Z
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