Self harm is like riding a bike along a long, long, long hill.
I start in the middle. And a few months ago, I decided to finally try riding up the hill and try to get to the top. At first, I was sure I could get to the top. I pushed and I pushed until my legs were sore, but it was a satisfying sort of sore, a sort of 'I can do this' pain that spurred my forward even as my knees began to shake. Sometimes my pants would get snagged in the spokes, or I would start to lose my breath, but I kept going, it was long, tiresome work.
But after a while of riding up, I am so, so tired. So, so pained. I know I'm going to make it to the top, so no use rushing. I get off my bike and decide to walk instead. I go up slowly, but at least it's progress. I tell myself I'll get back on my bike once I catch my breath, and once the sun gets a bit lower in the sky.
Then, so ragged and worn, I stop walking. I stop, and feel the force of this enormous hill. I feel like I'll fall over, that's how great and long the pull is. And looking up, it's harder and harder to see whether I've made it up this hill at all. The top is far, far away, and I wonder why the hell I'm trying to bike up this thing, anyway. I wonder if getting to the top is so important.
Then, when I am so disillusioned I can't continue, I decide that I'll bike down the hill, just a little bit. Just for a bit of fun, to get some breath back into me, give off some energy. Because biking downhill is a blast. I'll make up for it, I'm sure, just a short, short loop down, and back.
The logic doesn't make sense, but I'm far too exhausted to care. All I want is a bit of movement that my muscles don't have to work for. Even if it's downward movement.
I get on my bike and point down that hill, and immediately begin to move without any effort. I don't even need to work. It comes effortlessly and naturally, and it feel amazing. I laugh as I begin to race, because it's the most fun I've had since I started up this hill, and I feel the free.
A few seconds become a few minutes as I've become enthralled in this incredibly fast race downward. In moments, I realize that my speed has caused me to plummet downward farther than all those days of going up, and now I've raced past that starting middle point, and watching progress become erased, and then I'm heading down. And I look at how fast all that work disappeared, and I think that there's probably no way in hell I'm ever gonna get back up there again, not to mention to the top.
And since I realized there's no way I'm getting up there again, there certainly isn't any point in turning around. I let myself race faster and faster downwards, and create a new goal to see how fast and how far I can go before I get hurt. Or whether I can reach the bottom of this hill. Or whether I can race downward and not crash.
At one point I realize I'm scared, but if I try to turn this bike, or try to break, I'm going to flip off and die. I'm going to die. It's just a matter of when.
That's when I realize that the hill to getting rid of self harm is one that I can't mount alone. I'll never get to the top by myself. Not when it's so much easier to ride down. There's no way I'll keep pushing.
So now I'm finally going to ask someone to help me. I'm going to tie my bike to the back of a stranger's car and hope the rope doesn't break or he doesn't drive to fast or I won't fall off or get hurt or go nowhere. I'm putting my trust in some stranger with some professional degree in whatever, and hope that somehow that engine runs and those wheels turn even though I don't understand the mechanics and I don't believe in the results.
I fucking hate this hill and sometimes I want to to jump off and fall down into the eternity beside it.
Let's hope I can remember why I'm trying to get to the top. Let's hope I can leave this hill behind.
I'll just keep repeating my mantra.
Life is good.
I start in the middle. And a few months ago, I decided to finally try riding up the hill and try to get to the top. At first, I was sure I could get to the top. I pushed and I pushed until my legs were sore, but it was a satisfying sort of sore, a sort of 'I can do this' pain that spurred my forward even as my knees began to shake. Sometimes my pants would get snagged in the spokes, or I would start to lose my breath, but I kept going, it was long, tiresome work.
But after a while of riding up, I am so, so tired. So, so pained. I know I'm going to make it to the top, so no use rushing. I get off my bike and decide to walk instead. I go up slowly, but at least it's progress. I tell myself I'll get back on my bike once I catch my breath, and once the sun gets a bit lower in the sky.
Then, so ragged and worn, I stop walking. I stop, and feel the force of this enormous hill. I feel like I'll fall over, that's how great and long the pull is. And looking up, it's harder and harder to see whether I've made it up this hill at all. The top is far, far away, and I wonder why the hell I'm trying to bike up this thing, anyway. I wonder if getting to the top is so important.
Then, when I am so disillusioned I can't continue, I decide that I'll bike down the hill, just a little bit. Just for a bit of fun, to get some breath back into me, give off some energy. Because biking downhill is a blast. I'll make up for it, I'm sure, just a short, short loop down, and back.
The logic doesn't make sense, but I'm far too exhausted to care. All I want is a bit of movement that my muscles don't have to work for. Even if it's downward movement.
I get on my bike and point down that hill, and immediately begin to move without any effort. I don't even need to work. It comes effortlessly and naturally, and it feel amazing. I laugh as I begin to race, because it's the most fun I've had since I started up this hill, and I feel the free.
A few seconds become a few minutes as I've become enthralled in this incredibly fast race downward. In moments, I realize that my speed has caused me to plummet downward farther than all those days of going up, and now I've raced past that starting middle point, and watching progress become erased, and then I'm heading down. And I look at how fast all that work disappeared, and I think that there's probably no way in hell I'm ever gonna get back up there again, not to mention to the top.
And since I realized there's no way I'm getting up there again, there certainly isn't any point in turning around. I let myself race faster and faster downwards, and create a new goal to see how fast and how far I can go before I get hurt. Or whether I can reach the bottom of this hill. Or whether I can race downward and not crash.
At one point I realize I'm scared, but if I try to turn this bike, or try to break, I'm going to flip off and die. I'm going to die. It's just a matter of when.
That's when I realize that the hill to getting rid of self harm is one that I can't mount alone. I'll never get to the top by myself. Not when it's so much easier to ride down. There's no way I'll keep pushing.
So now I'm finally going to ask someone to help me. I'm going to tie my bike to the back of a stranger's car and hope the rope doesn't break or he doesn't drive to fast or I won't fall off or get hurt or go nowhere. I'm putting my trust in some stranger with some professional degree in whatever, and hope that somehow that engine runs and those wheels turn even though I don't understand the mechanics and I don't believe in the results.
I fucking hate this hill and sometimes I want to to jump off and fall down into the eternity beside it.
Let's hope I can remember why I'm trying to get to the top. Let's hope I can leave this hill behind.
I'll just keep repeating my mantra.
Life is good.
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