I'm Fine

 I keep on remembering this poem I wrote in 2013. I think I actually write is in 2012, but I didn't think it was good and hid it away as a scrap. Then I rediscovered it, loved it, and put it up. I used it for poetry reading. And I come back to it, time and time again. Roughly two years later, it still sounds so accurate. (It also includes how I felt when Kate and I were growing apart--strange how I keep coming back to that. It also talks about how I found out Tyra had self harm problems.)

My friend, I know, has joined me now
As each day, we count another night
Further from that death
And each day, I break a bit more
But I also become much, much stronger
So no need to worry, I'll be fine.

I hope you never become one of us
Waiting for our hearts to heal
Standing in bands of broken soldiers
Keeping our chins up
So the enemy thinks we're strong
And the ally believes we aren't weak.

It doesn't matter how many prayers I whisper to God
In harsh, shaking gasps at the window pane
And it certainly doesn't make a difference
What I write inside these pages
So all the little hints I drop, with forced smiles
And shaking laughter-
Ignore them, I'll be fine.

Your distant warmth and promises that you cared
I can only hold onto memories and believe they still apply
Having no right to doubt your heart, I try
But it's hard to hold on when you create walls
And those walls are flat, polished, reflective
Where am I supposed to grasp onto?
How can I survive near you?
When the only glimpses I catch are sad, shallow smiles?

Oh, but now things have changed
Slowly, I'm regaining my grip on reality
And taking my fate into my own hands
See, how she laughs with me now, and my chest bursts with joy?
I smile internally multiples of before, when the world didn't tremor
Without purpose, I'll wander aimlessly,
Hoping I can convince myself that searching is my 'reason'
And that I'm not just searching in circles where you stood---
But see, at least I have my efforts back
Worry not, I'll be fine.

I'm leaving behind the past me, who accepts everything
--that's what I say while taking steps forward,
My past self clinging to my shirt sleeve like a lost soul.
There's no way I could dispose of something so pitiful
She represents my hope, and hope is so hard to do away with
Though I've told myself the truth time and time again
It rolls around in my head like a stone that doesn't exist.

But see, I have people who care
They hold me and smile sweet, grand grins
And float about like doting parents.
They say kind words with sincere expressions
So sincere I would never want to worry them, or disappoint
So I'll tell them that I have gotten over that pesky problem
The one they never agreed with
But saying so is the first step toward making it a reality
So don't cast your eyes here, I'm fine.

Just like I'll always be fine.
Just like I have been forever.
I'm too good to struggle.
And as you know and loved,
I'm too good to fall.

Life is good.

Forgiveness

 I still often think about when I put myself at my absolutely most vulnerable state. It was in high school, maybe junior year--it was when I was realizing my entire friendship with Kate was falling apart.

For example, our last year of junior high, during the Chicago trip, we were talking in the middle of the night and I told her I had been suffering depression. I told her I had been suicidal. And even as I told her that I had since recovered (my obsession with Julie had successfully distracted me from my dark thoughts enough where depression no longer ruled over my life), she was crying. She cried over my sadness, and I felt then that she truly cared about me. (I now realized I have told people 'I've recovered' a lot, and never once have I been right. Maybe I should start reevaluating how I use that phrase.)

In junior high, we told each other absolutely everything--we cried together, we held onto each other, we told each other the darkness in our hearts. I think the problem was my darkness kept growing, and her darkness ran dry. Her life got better; mine got worse.

My depression got worse. But I had been seeing more and more that Kate didn't really talk to about her life anymore. Not even just about concerns or darkness--about anything. I was losing track of whether I even knew what was happening in her life anymore. I was losing track of her. And I realized I didn't want to tell her about my darkness anymore---it was too large by this point, she wouldn't be able to understand anymore---and I didn't feel safe telling her. Not only had I become distant to the point where to burden her with my troubles felt like an intrusion, but it now felt as if she would hurt me if I let her in.

I started dating Rachel, and I finally had someone to talk to about my depression. It was strange not talking to Kate about it. At one point, I realized I was hanging out with her more out of habit than out of fondness; she became more and more volatile, and I felt like anything I had to contribute only served to get her angry. She didn't have enough patience to deal with me. And it was scary. And it hurt. I became to be terribly afraid of her.

And I was getting more and more stressed and more and more worried about it. At one point, my own insecurities started to feed into my depression. And then, there was one day where, more than any other day, I wanted to die. I wanted to die so badly.
And it felt awful. It was terrifying. And within my terrible, horrible panic attack, I remembered Kate and I's old friendship, and thought that if I never came out with my feelings, I wasn't being a good friend either. I had to try trusting her.

So in my most vulnerable, I called her. And I told her I wasn't feeling well and that I needed to talk to someone, and she said okay. And I was so scared. And putting myself in the most bare and defenesless state I will ever be in, I asked he this question:

"If I were to die, do you think anyone would care?"

Now, this is a terribly awful and manipulative question, especially coming from someone who just admitted to being suicidal. But it is also a very easy question. This was one of those questions that had a pre-set answer, one that you had to say regardless of your feelings about it. And anyone picking up my very obvious, depression-mangled hints would be able to see that. There was only one right answer, and it could very well set my life.

She did not see that. I still remember her response often, though I know I should let it go--the fault was mine for asking questions when I was expecting an answer. But somehow I still can't forget it:

"If I were to die, so you think anyone would care?"
"I...think so"

She never gave the sentence conclusion. It was very non-commital. After she said that, I went through the rest of the conversation with my mind blank and in a fuzz--I ended it as soon as I could and curled up in a ball on my bed. I didn't even have the motivation to go through with my suicidal urges--the life had been sapped out of me. I just had to lay there broken and dull, wishing my heart would stop so I wouldn't have to get up and stop it myself.

She didn't say she would care if I died.

We are friends now--with a much different relationship than when we were confidants, but a healthy friendship nonetheless. But ever since that conversation, I don't think our friendship could have ever been the same. I don't think I have forgiven her for that comment. I think I'm going to hold it in my heart for the rest of my life, as a weight I can't get rid of. I will not bring it back. I'm still alive, she still cares about me--there's no reason to burden her with that kind of guilt or shame this long after the words had been said.

...Recently, my college course on thinking critically has been covering A Case for Reparations. It goes that the actions of the past can be at least partially forgiven if the offending party admits they have wronged the other, acknowledges it, and tries to do something about it (such as an apology and some kind of forward action to redeem themselves). It keeps reminding me of John.

My therapist told me before that I'm supposed to just forget the emotional abuse, and that bringing it up may not necessarily change anything. I have been trying to. I put the house behind me, I put the man behind me, but I can't escape it--I still have to see him often. I still have to talk to him. Yesterday was his birthday, and I was supposed to call him. I didn't. Because although he hasn't hurt me lately, those wounds are burned into me as resentment and fear, and even wishing him a happy birthday feels like I'm betraying some part of myself.

I wondered, then, if reparations could help? If I were to tell him that he had effectively emotionally abused me, and if he were to own up to it and apologise, could it inspire change in him so he could improve upon himself? If that were the case, would I finally feel better and be able to forgive him?

....Going back to that one night in Chicago with Kate. I once brought it up to her, maybe last year, about how much it meant to me when she cried over my sadness. She said she couldn't remember ever doing that.

Would John ever be able to own up to his past actions? Somehow I think that, much like past talks, I would not be able to explain it in a way where he could understand. It would either sound like I was throwing yet another angry accusation or baseless insult, over exaggeration or otherwise heedless point; or it would go over their heads. They would understand I am upset, but not why--has anything happened recently to create this??---and try to connect it to current times (and thus, find no fault, and not understand my side). Then, they would force me to say I had forgiven everything, regardless of whether I actually had time to. This is why I stopped trying to explain myself and why I felt bothered. This is why I had told myself I would stop trying.

So no, I don't think reparations are effective for this situation--at least, not in a way where I could ever forgive him. Same goes for Kate's comment. Even if I told her about what she had said, even if she apologized for it, would I be able to forget? Could I forgive her? I doubt it. This, and the trauma brought by the emotional abuse, will probably stay with me forever without being given proper conclusion. I just need to wait for them to get weaker with time and fade.

Since I need to give John some belated birthday wishes today, I hope I get over it soon. There is only so long I can give noncommittal answers to "you two are good, right?" before Mom begins to get upset.

Life is good.

-------
EDIT:
I apparently write about this exact thing in my post from 2013, Panic Attack. I guess I don't change my thinking much.
But I feel like realizing that is kind of important somehow????
I'm not sure yet. I still have a lot to think about.

Secondary Self Loathing

 I am beginning to understand Rachel and her previous need for abusive relationships. This strange fixation with pain has taught me many things, one of which being that there is more than one way to look at hurting yourself. I still fantasize of burning, biting, and tearing, but I am learning that when one doesn't like themselves, they may very well wish for someone else to burning, biting, and tearing. This is especially true if you are trying incredibly hard not to hurt yourself anymore, but need some form of release.

Still, self-harm fantasies are a far more common occurrence for me, but occasionally I will imagine having someone else pull my hair, bite my legs, and call me disgusting. And, strangely enough, there is some sort of satisfaction in the scenario. Just like there is a sick satisfaction in taking a deep breath full of cigarette smoke in the city--No, I might not be the one smoking, yet I can find ways to do myself in. Everything in life is capable of hurting you, if you can manipulate it right.

My mental health has improved dramatically since last year---I know longer interact with the world in the same way I did then. I no longer have the need to 'baby-proof my air'; I can live comfortably and safely in my own skin again. I can breathe easy around most sharp objects, be left alone with only occasional repercussions, and look at the world through the eyes of a healthy and mentally stable person, albeit with a few exceptions. That being said, I still have my ups and downs--a panic attack I had six days ago had me seeing things again that I hadn't seen since I wore gloves, and even now nearly a week later I am unsteady on my feet and with my eyes. It takes a while to forget that mindset--it worms its way into your head. But I'll be okay. I'm in a fun, exciting environment, living with someone that keeps me taking care of myself, and I have my partner or even Rachel for whenever it gets too overwhelming.

I made the mistake last week of getting cocky, believing I had already fully recovered and that I was perfectly healthy. Recovery doesn't happen in less than a year. It may never fully heal me--I can never forget the things I've seen and thought. I still wear gloves to sleep, and I still have fantasies in various forms. But I'm improving. I just need to remember that I am a bit more fragile and a bit more sensitive than others, and keep myself at this slow and steady pace. I'll do my best to keep myself safe and not take risks. I don't want to break anymore--by my hand, nor anyone else's.

Life is good.

I can finally believe my motto again

 I think I'm finally getting better.

Therapy has been going well. But while the vast majority of it was me improving, there were times I slipped into bouts of biting. Anxiety sometimes crept up on me, bad thoughts sometimes took my breath, and I begged for death under my breath. I still haven't completely weaned myself off my gloves---I still need them when I'm sleeping. But most of my symptoms now feel very far away for me. I rarely if ever feel that bad anymore. I don't have self harm thoughts about the objects around me. I recovered far, far quicker than I was expecting, to the point where I may cancel therapy. And today, I really felt it. Safety.

Before, I was obsessed with reading stories--hours upon hours of stories each day---and it overwhelmed me with emotions. It was almost like the tears again; an addiction, a way for me to feel strong sensations and chemical releases that  couldn't otherwise. Maybe that's exactly what it was. But from the comfort of my bed, for hours on end, I could put myself through powerful waves of emotions and thrills that sent me on the edge of tears, and never have a moment of calm. It was overwhelming.

And I quickly realized that, like when I was in paramount stress, being overwhelmed with emotion made me want to hurt myself. It was nearly every time. Be it overwhelmed with euphoria or sorrow, I would always end up gnawing on my hands, or scratching at my face. When I was stressed, it was the same. I think that's why it began to carry over into everything else--I was so scared of being labeled and suffering self-harm, so scared of being a freak, and so anxious over my feelings over Rebbie, that I was always in a state of stress. The only relief was escape in my stories.

The therapist said that I felt emotions too strongly. That's true, I guess, though I hate to think it. I've always been like that. The smallest thing can fling me over the edge, into impossible hysterics. I feel every emotion so intensely. I guess it was my downfall. Hurting myself was always the conclusion.

Therapy has been attempting to teach me to distance myself from my emotions a bit, to a healthy level. 'Separate your thoughts from your emotions', he said. It never sat right with me. But by the third visit, I had talked over my feelings with Rebbie and we had found our love to be mutual. And since then, though not much changed, I felt incredibly less anxious. Bad thoughts plagued me less and less, and self-harm has been at an all time low. Now, it rarely happens. I guess that anxiety over them was really eating away at me and I was trying to hide it from myself. I can finally interact with my environment healthily again.

But I continued therapy, because I knew all of my dips had been because of my complete and utter inability to deal with stress. But today, I went back to the stories. And they crashed over me just like before, an amazing amount of intensity and inspiration. And at first, I felt a stronger urge to hurt again. I gritted my teeth until they were sore and bit down on a wound in my lip. But then, that faded. I was just desiring the urge to paint.

When did I get to the point where I could deal with stress at a healthy level? When was I able to sort through my feelings through harmless and progressive means? What was the tipping point where I stopped solving stress with pain and started using art? I don't know. But it's amazing. I'm far but perfectly emulating mental health, but I finally feel healthy. I feel like I'm free, a bit. Distanced from mental illness. I've recovered, I'm becoming a good person again. I can breathe.

I can finally say it again and mean it:

Life is good.

Brain Plasticity

 I just finished my second date with my therapist, and we are actually getting somewhere. I always assumed therapy was just talking about your dark secrets and inner fears until the quack tells me what is making my thoughts dark, but apparently there might be more (or even less) to it. My psychologist has an interest in neurology as well as simple empathy stuff, and brought up that topic of brain plasticity as a hypothesis for my self harming habits.

And when he mentioned it, it seemed to make almost too much sense. It would explain how I can constantly think about hurting myself while not being depressed. It explains how I recovered from my depression in ninth grade when I became fixated on Julie and forgot everything else. It explains why being alone with my thoughts was so hard, why I never felt quite as dramatic as I thought I should have been, how it was never quite consistent and how I sometimes didn't feel as mentally ill as I saw in my past self and in others with serious problems. It's friggin brain plasticity.

Basically, it's not that I'm really sad, but that during my depression I kept thinking of that mental self harm, and then Rachel told me what i was doing, and I started thinking about it constantly. The self harm got worse because it became all I could think about; and the more I dwelled on it, the more that that line of thinking became further ground into my brain. Suddenly all lines of thought led inevitably to self harm. But there is a way to get around it, just how I managed to get out of my depression--distraction. That fills the rut.

There is a chance that I could interact with the world in a healthy way again. I could look at the world and not see ways to hurt myself. I could handle sharp objects without panicking. I could feel noprmal around lighters again. I could finally feel like a normal, functioning human being again.

I am so overjoyed and filled with hope. Overcoming my thoughts is going to take time, but I am so incredibly enthusiastic for the results.

Life is good.

Lists

 I like lists. Organizing life into lists makes me feel a bit more... I don't know how to describe it. Settled, maybe? Either way, it is also a way to chronicle the things that happen to me, especially things that I can't otherwise bring up. I need t share things; I don't feel sane if there's something I can't share. So when there's some important life event in my life that I can't possibly share, I like to put it in a list. I've written numerous lists on this blog, and I've been making lists since I was little... But nothing this dark before. But I really want to write this down somewhere, because it is meaningful to me, it is important, I think about it all the time and it affects me and I will never stop thinking about it. It is important to who I am.

So this is my list of ways I have fantasied hurting myself (or, for a few, more than fantasies).

• I have dreamed of razors. This is probably the most obvious but one of the least frequent for me. It scares me too much. I have seen it far too often and it has traumatized me and I can't even get close to a razor because of it, much less try. I have seen craters and canyons in the walls of her skin and rivers so deep they have kissed the bone and in the darkest of moments I have envisioned those same things carved into my skin and it makes my skin quake. I have imagine gauging out my lips, scooping out my cheeks, tracing pools in the fat on my legs with the blades inside my disposable razors.... It is amazing how much skin we have.
• I have caressed my back while searching for scars, and have caught myself stroking my spinal cord fondly. I have dreamed of reaching in and ripping it out of my body. This, I could obviously not do. But I think of it.
• I've thought of drinking nail polish remover. About every time I use it. It would be quick and I'm guessing I would probably die. I don't usually think of ways to kill myself, only to cause minor injury (at least, that is most common). But if I were to ever be suicidal, I think I would probably drink nail polish remover. Jokes on me if it isn't lethal (though I doubt it isn't).
• Snow. Sticking my hands in snow was an easy transition when I got into burning during winter. Then my arms. I had always thought that the image of someone going into the snow without a coat to be romantic--I think somehow the image of keeping my limbs under the snow came off similarly. It never lasted long enough though, and I grew tired of it.
• Speaking of which: Burning. So many ways of burning. It started with boiling mugs of tea pressed into my skin. Then came my fear of lighters. Lighters plague my nightmares. Lighters haunt the halls of my home. Lighters keep my sneaking into the garage. It's become a sort of mania, burning. An obsession. Luckily, I have had no luck with lighters, since I have been blessed with an absolute inability to light them. Recently, my preference has been towards cigarettes. Everytime I smell smoke, I crave them. I want to smoke, but not just for the relaxing effects it is said to contain: I want the smoke to burn my eyes; I want the drags to burn my throat; I want the coughing and retching to burn my lungs; I want the ashes to burn my skin.
• Biting is another recent favorite that has been going on for months now. First it was just biting my knuckles to keep myself from thinking certain thoughts or actions... but then it became its own vice, and thus starting new fantasies. Like chewing my hands like gum. That tantalizing thought keeps me awake for hours. And by tantalizing I mean horrifying. And tantalizing.
• Pizza Cutter. Ha, I still laugh at that one. I friggin got triggered by a stupid pizza cutter. It was shiny and silver and not actually all that sharp but I thought it might be nice to roll it across the underside of my arm where the skin is thin. Goodness. I am stupid.
• Hot glue. This also has to do with burning. I'd like to get out my hot glue gun and make clear, burning trails over my arms and peel them off to expose red little rivers that sting. But I could only remove it once its dry. Not a long wait, but long enough when the substance is hot enough to melt. I wonder if my skin would melt as well. (I'm glad the hot glue gun is in a box, so that my laziness keeps me from grabbing it.)
• As of a few minutes ago: sticking my hand in the garbage disposal. 
• Have I mentioned boiling water? Burning is kind of a pattern.
• There was a time when I hit myself repeatedly with blunt objects. Such as can openers, and rocks of substantial weight.
• I have thin chains in the pocket of my jacket. Sometimes I wrap it around and around my fingers and hand, and then pull, very tightly. I also do this with ribbons. I hope that loss of circulation will make me feel better; I'm not quite sure where I came up with this logic.
• There is of course, scratching myself. Scratching my neck until it bleeds. Scratching my head until I feel potholes all over my skull. scratching into the scars until they enlarge, scratching into the open flesh, digging in. Thinking about this enough scares me tremendously.

 I think of little things, like pressing my finger to the rim of a can I opened and hoping for once that it's sharp; biting my tongue with my pointed teeth; thumbtacks and pins; even keeping my eyes open longer than I should to feel them sting. I have lost track of all the countless ideas that have entered my mind when it comes to hurting myself.

As I explained in the last entry, I often felt like I was afraid of everything. One can easily see anything. Practically anything found in ordinary life has some sort of value in terms of hurting me. How many days did I spend in Paula's house, putting my head through the loop in the shower head wire, where it hung just like I noose? I always thought of strangling myself with it, though I wasn't sure it was possible.

Now that I think about it, I have been having these fantasies since seventh grade: that's nearly five years. Five years of dreaming up different ways to damage myself. No wonder my mind is so messed up.

I am a psychological mess and it makes me feel miserable.

An Epiphany about Fear

 There was a time, a few months ago, when i made a list of all of the things I was afraid of. It went something like this:
Razors, sharp objects, thumbtacks, lighters, snow(occasionally), scissors, bruises, bite marks, bandages around my neck, open wounds, scratches, hot glue,  and my own hands and arms.

And really, I would still say that I am, by and large, afraid of these things, but on a deeper and more analytical level, I know that that's not true. I know because I have experiences irrational fear of inanimate objects before; I know phobias, and while some of these (such as razors) might have been very real in my past, I do not think they apply to me now.

Instead, I think it may be more accurate to say that I am scared of myself.

One big moment of realization for me was in Bri's car. Bri has two lighters in her car. A few months before, I had been at her house, and I had seen a lighter sitting in a remote area--I was afraid, deathly afraid, and actually asked her to hide it for me.  I could have grabbed it when no one was looking and done something bad, and I had been terrified of my own lack of self control and of the thoughts swirling about in my head.

In Bri's car a few months later, i saw two lighters in her car. At first I had a twang of nervousness, but it quickly passed; the lighters did not scare me. It was not because the lighters were any different than usual lighters. It was because Bri was right there in the car with me; there was absolutely no way I could get away with anything crazy, and with her right by my, I didn't have any dark thoughts.

So what I am actually afraid of is myself. I am scared of my lack of self control, and I am scared of what i will do if given the opportunity.  I am still awful at breaking habits. I do not seem to be getting much better.

On one hand, this is a good realization because it makes me realize that I am not a crazy person who is afraid of everything. It seemed as if I was able to somehow trigger myself with any ordinary object, and it felt as if I was practically afraid of everything. On the other hand, this makes it so much worse. I cannot escape from this fear. I cannot distance myself from it. Unlike lighters, I cannot have people hide them from me. Unlike my hands and arms, I cannot cover them with cloth. I can do nothing to save myself from me; I am always in the danger zone, and that is so, so terrifying.

And isn't it just typical of me, being afraid of myself. That is such an egotistical thing to do. It is always about me, huh?

But then, at the very least, I am getting help now. Soon I won't even have to fear myself.

(but can one live without an all encompassing fear to live with? I don't think I've ever known a life like that.)

Life is good.