For the love of Christ, let's end her.
"It's when hate turns to love (and love to hate),
Fate to doubt (and doubt to fate)..."
She's beyond redemption, children.
I'm in the mood to strangle something. To break something. To hurt something. I am in the mood, my darlings, to tell you a story horrifically riveting...because I am forbidden from acting out said story lest it fuel an emotionally-saturated diatribe from certain, beloved individuals.
Listen to me. Are you paying attention?
I have been waging a gruesome war for ten years. I have been commanding soldiers, crafting strategies, and guessing the enemy's tactics for a decade. One-tenth of a century. Half of my life. It's not been easy, it certainly hasn't been enjoyable, and it hasn't
done much.
I've been waging a war against myself in the arena of self-mutilation. I have been slicing open flesh and finger-painting with rust-juice and sighing in something akin to ecstasy every time the rush of pain hits me. An endorphin junkie, maybe? Oh, now that's too comical to imagine. Listen to me, all of you bleeding-heart do-gooders. Pay attention, all of you 'panacea theory' toting idiots. I
like the sensation of being carved apart. I
like the sting, the twinge, and the tingle a pair of scissors (an oversized safety pin, a sliver of glass) can impart. I
adore the way wine-colored scars look when criss-crossing a previously unmarred tract of skin. Am I sick? Oh, lord, how some have tried to convince me. Am I an anomaly to that social construct that simpers "pain is not the answer" -- to that metal-toothed mouthpiece that bleats unceasingly coy copies of mass-minded mantras? Who knows.
"If you want to save her, then first you have to save
yourself.
If you want to free her from the hurt, don't do it with your pain."
Does that make any sense? Is it ringing any "realization suddenly" bells?
No, I thought not.
Often I imagine that perhaps it is due to my alexythmiac predilections (and a dictionary to you, sneering reader) that I turn to self-mutilation as a means of expression. Some are incredulous at the fact that I often scream "there is no other way!" -- that I run face-down into myself in order to bask in the comfort supplied so readily. I am of the opinion that if something works, one should continue to do it until it works no longer. Scarring and social ostracization (I believe I just made up a word) aside, this self-injuring
works. It works, darlings. It takes away the inside-hurt. It makes the whirlwind in my head stop. It allows me to safely bottle all bad feelings until such a time as I am able to cope with them more readily. Let's reread that sentence, shall we? It's so important in the understanding of self-mutilation. It's so key to understanding
me.
"It allows me to safely bottle all bad feelings until such a time as I am able to cope with them more readily." There we have it. So maybe I
don't always enjoy hurting myself; I certainly don't when I realize (through that fog of "only
my alleviation of agony matters") that this tendency hurts...no, that this tendency
tyrannizes those I love. Is that an accurate description of what it does when I ask one to recall past wounds and words?
As I write this paragraph, I realize the sometimes-insensitive air this entire entry has taken on. I'm unsure as to whether I should apologize -- after all, passionate pieces are best turned out when real passion exists...and the amount of time I've spent deliberating on this topic is enough to spark in the even the coldest breast a tongue of passion too insatiable to be ignored. Where am I left? Somewhere "between a rock and a hard place," so to speak. Allow me to reiterate, clarify, and confuse once more.
"It's all I have as I stumble in and out of grace."
Here it is. My bare-boned summary. Oh, to be concise and raw-worded when the situation calls for it! Long-winded commentary on self-mutilation from peers and professionals alike have awakened an oft-smouldering anger in me recently; I spend a majority of my time believing that self-mutilation aids me in expressing emotions when other avenues seem horrifyingly inadept; this inability to express feelings has created in me an anguish that seems physically nauseating at times; often I see that self-mutilation torments those I love most, and an alternative to this destruction of self seems tantalizingly close -- and unbelievably better.
Oh, and the rest of my thoughts lay in complete disarray. I've confused myself once more.
"So close to the flame..."
