***WARNING- Self harm is discussed pretty openly here, so stop reading if you think you’re going to find that TRIGGERING***
I’m writing this on Friday night when I can barely keep my eyes open- so anything that doesn’t make sense is down to that. Such as that horribly worded sentence.
I’ve had an interesting couple of days, it started with my mother putting her foot well and truly in it- something that she seems to be very good at. It was late at night and we were talking about stuff, I was trying to find the words to tell her about the nightmare (it was a nightmare, there’s no way that she can blame me for it) however we got a little side-tracked and I got frustrated because she doesn’t know about my delusions, my awake nightmares (wandering around at 2am hysterical and trying to get a knife to defend myself from the ‘shadow people’ who were surrounding me) or the small matter of me hearing voices- something that is being put down to stress.
So I’m sat there getting upset and tongue tied and sounding like a stroppy teenager when she says: You’re not hallucinating are you? Her tone dripping in sarcasm.
I, sensing that it would not be a good idea to say: perhaps, went with the equally true: I hope not. To which she replied: good- because we’re not going down that road.
She then said a few more words and left the room, leaving me reeling in shock and incredibly distressed.
Well mum, it’s nice to know where the line is, it’s really bloody wonderful to know exactly where you’re going to throw your hands in the air and walk away.
I mean, she’s said worse to me, she’s said much worse than that. Both my parents have- I don’t want to pull some crappy poor little me act, but I’m really upset by all this- I feel totally isolated and betrayed. I’m just really hurt.
Speaking of hurt, her comment was translated from my mind onto my skin. I haven’t cut myself in almost six months, I prefer slapping, pinching and punching these days (I gave myself a wonderful black eye last autumn) as I find them less messy, but a few nights ago I broke the pattern and pulled out my old friend: my scissors. They’re stupidly blunt, it takes me about half an hour of solid work to break the skin, I end up removing most of the surrounding skin the process. So I created a cut on my left thigh and then got hold of a biro and covered my legs and stomach in swirls and flowers- my memory of the night is a little hazy and I only really remember waking up the next morning and finding biro all over my covers- that was a bit of a shock.
Then last night I caught a glimpse of my feeble cut and decided, in my stupid warped mind that it couldn’t convey what was in my head. So I picked up my damn scissors again.
I’ve now been left with most of the skin on my left thigh raised and pink, and five three inch cuts. I’ve spent the day limping and wincing and trying to hide the fact that it’s been burning like hell. I’m okay now, I should have cleaned it better- I was stupid enough not to clean my scissors but I’ve learnt my lesson and gave them a thorough clean today as well as wrapping them in cling-film to keep them fresh (?!?) I have to say that showering was hell, the water and soap made my leg sting so badly- I was biting down on my lip to stop myself hissing in pain.
I feel dirty even thinking about the boys- dirty and violated. I can smell them on me- it’s been three years and I haven’t had a peep- why now? Why now when I’m trying to do my GCSE’s? This really isn’t helping with the whole ‘let’s try and get some qualifications so we can get the hell out of this shitty town and away from my screwed up family.’ But I refuse to let them stop me. If there’s one thing I’m glad of it’s my rabid stubbornness.
Listening to: Tiny Vessels by Death Cab for Cutie. this song has such wonderful lyrics that we can all understand. It’s soft and sweet for the most part but the guitars come in towards the middle and just make me want to crawl out of my skin (in a good way)