Borderline Suicidal

This is a phrase I use for myself, it doesn't appear in any text books or therapists guides or whatever else one could use for reference. It's simple, really, as a concept. It means that I have thoughts of suicide floating around in my blasted head, but I lack the other two elements that would concern Dr B, namely a plan and intent. I can think about dying, being dead, even the act of killing myself all I want, but since I lack a real plan and I really don't have any intention of topping myself there's not much to worry about, also not much anyone can do about it.

Thoughts are not actions. At least, not today.

I've had plans before, some rather elaborate. Of course, I've never done anything about it. In all my years, all 35 of them, I've never once actually attempted to kill myself. I have injured more times than I care to count, but that's not a suicidal act for me, its a way to live. Cut here, burn there, and I feel... better. Its hard to describe, but it helps.

I bought a punching bag a few months back, that helps too. Releases endorphins and its a form of injury that I can easily explain. Bruised knuckles? "Punching bag". And its not a lie. Most of the time, I wrap my hands properly and use gels. Sometimes I won't use the gels for a while, a round or two, then I'll put the gels on. Those are the days I need the pain. Today was one of those days. Spent 30 minutes on the bag, about 10 without the gels. And I'm feeling it, but I feel I deserve it.

Better bruised hands than dead, right? 

Numb and Alone

So I'm in a support chat for self harm. I say that I'm feeling numb and urgy, no one says a damned thing and starts talking about shoes! SHOES?!?!

I don't just say things to say them! I felt that I needed to talk, but no! There is less and less support in that chat lately. Its not easy for me to say anything especially when I need something. I'm tired, I'm stressed, angry, numb, urgy. Being ignored isn't what I needed.

Almost tempted to pull a Patch Adams. There's a scene where Patch is talking to his therapist, who is ignoring him. Patch tells him, "And then I decided to use my penis as a po-go stick until I realized that it wasn't a good mode of transportation." I'm so tempted to say that so often, to so many people. But there are two reasons why, 1) its a bit rude, 2) I do not, in fact, have a penis.

I see Doc tomorrow, I'll hang out till then, hopefully.

Bed Rest

Not doing too great today. I wasn't feeling well, and came home. The stomach pain is gone, mostly, but I don't want to get out of bed. I'm writing this post from my tablet, I can't get to my computer. That takes effort. Instead, I'm curled in bed watching CSI:NY and blogging or trolling pinterest. My parents are outside and enjoying the evening air.

I want to sleep, but am unable. Or else my system is unwilling. I'm tired. Damn it... I am so tired that just thinking about it makes me want to cry. I won't though, I can't. I think I may have forgotten how. That isn't true, I do cry, just never often.

Damn you, depression! Damn you.

Mum Asked... I Lied

So I'm sitting across the room from my mother and she sees my latest burn. The skin is a bit read but, not infected. Its healing rather well, actually. She just saw the mark, not that actual burn itself. She asked me what it was and being across the room with her eyesight as poor as it is, I could get away with the usual lie.

"Nicked myself at work," I shrugged.

She accepted that and left it. I hate how easy it is for me to lie about my injuries. Its almost as simple as breathing. I kept the burn hidden for just over a week. After all this time, all these stories and blaming my clumsiness ( which is very real, I'm incredibly accident prone) she finally notices and asks. We were expecting company, I wasn't in the mood, I didn't tell the truth.

Some day, I'll tell them everything. Some day... probably never. I've gotten into this thing alone. I'll get out of it with the help of my Doc.

Does it really matter?

I have no insurance and therefore cannot afford therapy. Of course once I do have private insurance, I also cannot afford therapy. Email to my therapist what I've found for health care and that its still not affordable and she replies, "Its a flawed system". No shit, Sherlock. Of course she isn't on the receiving end of the shit storm! She has health care, and the money to afford whatever the hell she needs. At $170 a session before insurance and "sliding scale" no wonder. Of course whatever she doesn't get directly in cash that day, the insurance reimburses to the point that she only has her office open to the psychos like me for three days in the work week.

I shouldn't be angry with Dr B, its not her fault. She's trying to help in her own way. She is a prisoner to the system just as much as I am. She can only do so much whilst my hands are tied completely.

I'm angry, pissed off, fucking furious and there is not a bloody thing I can do about any of it. Sure, I can injure, like I did last night. Doesn't help, none of it helps. I could change my injury spot again, new pain... No, doesn't help forever. Numb in the skin and pain in the brain. What a way to go. I close my eyes to try and calm myself, to not see that my life is nothing but a waste most of the time. My parents are disappointed in me because I can't move out and leave them alone. I have few friends and none of which I would ever tell my darkest secret. I have virtually no support.

I. Am. Alone.

I feel it every day I breathe, every night I try to dream. Part of me is so close to saying "fuck it" and giving up. But what of the other part? Too subbourne to die, to give in, to leave. I'm screaming in my head, I'm begging to be heard, but on one seems to hear me. Maybe I'm not loud enough, maybe none of them care, maybe maybe maybe... Does any of it really matter? Do I?

Broken Angel

No one notices
and no body sees
the fallen angel
on bended knees.

Raising her vision to
the lonely skies,
she silently screams
and slowly dies.

Her wings were broken
by her terrible fall
but not her spirit
as she walks tall.

Strong in her heart
as in her mind
lingers the past
which was rarely kind.

With no other choice,
she pushes back hate
and walks ever forward
toward whatever fate.

Whether life or death
heaven or hell,
she'll accept what's
given till end of the bell.

Unemployed

This hasn't been the easiest week. I was forced to quit my job as a cashier, not a big loss, but I don't have any income at the moment. My mother watches too much late night "news" and is convinced that I am "handicapped" and can't "have other people working" with me. I told her that if I'm disabled I better be able to get money for this. My therapist tells me that she's never heard of such a thing. I think I'll trust the woman who has the degree in the mental department.

Since I'm unemployed, I canceled the appointment I had with Dr B and emailed her an explanation as to why. Basically I have to save whatever money I can and she's a commodity that I can scarce afford. She replied that she'd give me a session because she felt that I was having too much at once and needed some encouragement. THANK YOU, DR B!! I don't know if she realizes how much I needed to hear that I'm not useless, that I'm not "handicapped", that I can do this. I know my coping skills aren't great, but at least I'm coping. She doesn't berate me for injury, though she does agree that coping by cutting isn't healthy. She encouraged me to do things more creative, like my jewelry or knitting.

I'm hunting for work, probably end up in a restaurant or something. I'll lie to my parents of course. Plaster that damned smile on my face and make everything look all peaches and roses. No one notices, nobody sees... they never do. Not even when I'm looking them in the eye, they can't see the pain in my own. I can, I see it plane, every morning and every night when I look in the mirror.

No Need For Excuses...

...When no one notices. I suppose this is a good thing. I managed to keep myself from screaming and freaking the hell out at work the other day. Of course to do so meant that I bit the palm of my hand, that plump part nearest the thumb. Now its all bruised and looks like I spilled ink from a toner cartridge. It only really hurts when I use my hand, which is all the time. I plan to do some yard work today, I could explain the bruise as a mishap with secateurs, hand shears.

Its getting harder and harder to live with my parents. I seem to keep doing everything wrong. I was blamed for leaving a mess on the kitchen stove, keep in mind that I hadn't personally cooked anything for several days and it wasn't me who left the bloody mess! Makes me wonder for how long this can go on. I'm beyond tired. I took a few sleeping pills last night and blissfully did not dream once and I slept all the way through the night.

This morning was a bit odd, there was a boom of some sort. Something sonic, it made my curtain move in a way unnatural of a breeze. I'll have to keep in mind to find out what it was.

God, this has become a ramble, hasn't it? Back to coffee and Inspector Lewis.

Assignment

I wrote last time that my therapist sent me with a homework assignment. First to free write on anger then to write a letter to self harm. The free write on anger is proving difficult and I think I'll write poetry without rules instead. Anyway the letter is done and I wanted to post it here as well.


Dear Self Injury,
It would be easy to say that I don't like you, even that I hate you, but I find it difficult to hate one that has been of such help to me. You've made it easier for me to handle problems that I didn't have the ability to cope with, emotions that were too difficult for me to handle. Times when I felt numb, you've been there to let me feel something tangible. When I've felt too much, you've given me only pain to focus on.

Hitting, you've been a constant companion for over a decade. You never leave a lasting mark, only a change of colours. Your effect doesn't last as long, but you're always around when I need you most. I'm afraid of using you sometimes because I don't want to cause any lasting damage. A broken bone is hard to explain, bruises are easier.

You've been with me a long time as well, Cutting. I've used your services when I need to calm down, when I feel a failure, or that I am not enough for anyone. Your sting is just enough to keep me from loosing myself, from becoming numb. In some way, I'm glad that you're there when I need you, but you've left me with scars. I can't wear shirts shorter then my elbows now.

Its funny how we don't realize that something is self harm until much later. I'm not sure when it started but Scratching or Picking my skin has become as common as Bruising. I don't realize I'm using you until I have bled and the deed is done. I have noticed that I pick when I'm anxious. You're the sneaky one, you come onto my skin of your own accord, uninvited. Often I don't realize how much damage has been done until its too late. You've left your marks on my hands.

Finally, Burning. You have left me with the most damage, you're also the youngest. I'm glad that you don't show up too terribly often. The problem is that you're too good, you feel too good. The pain you give me to focus on isn't like any of the others. The high lasts for hours and the pain can continue for days. The scars, though, though are highly visible, yet no one has ever noticed them.

Self harm, you have twisted my mind and warped my thoughts to the point that anything and everything can become a tool, a weapon to kill the emotional pain. You've become like a gang land ally. I have to pay a price for your help and its not always the help I need. Certainly not the safest way to cope with my problems. In a way, I feel you've lied to me. You promised to make me feel better. I guess I should have read the fine print where you said that it wouldn't be permanent.

Sometimes I feel as if I've become a can of soup, you know, labeled. I have come to think of myself as a Harmer or an Injurer first and a writer second. I know all the thinks I am; clever, intelligent, talented, grounded. Every time I turn to you, though, everything melts away and I am merely an Injurer or a method, cutter, burner, scratcher.

I hate how you have become like a drug to me, like heroin. If I injure enough, I'll calm down and sink into oblivion. If I'm really lucky, I'll sleep without dreaming, without the nightmares that have plagued me for some time. I blame you those partly. The more stressed I get, the further I try to go without you, the more difficult the nightmares become. Some mornings, I wake and want to go straight to you to make the start better then with me stressed out and edgy. Self Injury, you've been a helpful friend, but, like every friend I've had, you can't be trusted. I want to live my life without you, but I'm not sure I'm ready that I can. You have infiltrated my life like a Cold War double agent.

There has to be a way for us to part ways, one day. I know that I'm strong because I bear much weight on my shoulders. I know that we can separate, its going to take time and help, but I'll move forward and live my life without you.

Right now, I feel weak and feeble because I rely too much on you. It has to stop. You're not good enough for me. This parting is going to be long and bittersweet, but it has to happen.

Most Sincerely,
R-

Phantoms

Just finished watching Phantom Of The Opera. I always pity the Phantom. No one bothers to get to love him because of a past that he had no real control over, because of an image. No one seems to look past the scars and into his heart, past his pain to the true beauty he has always carried within himself but was too blinded by pain to see.

I can empathize with him, I know how he feels because I feel the same. I feel like I am blocked from feeling true emotions of love because my past defines me. I don't feel I can be completely honest because it seems no one will look past the scars and past the pain to see the girl I'm hiding. Part of me wants to know why, why no one seems to care enough to see past the smile and the jokes, past the bravado and into the centre of myself. Why am I not worthy of such an expedition?

Unhappy

I've been made full time at my job, which is both good and bad. I'm glad to get the extra hours and the insurance is better, but I don't like feeling like I have lost what little control I have. I'm neither thrilled nor upset about this. I'm bland and neutral.

My mom was disappointed when I wasn't more happy about the promotion. "I'm so sorry that you aren't a happy person," she said and was trying not to cry. I wrote her a note saying pretty much the following:

I don't know why I'm unhappy, though I can't really remember a time when I was completely happy without having this shadow of darkness hovering over every little thing I do. I don't know when it started or how, but I really noticed when I was about thirteen. I know it's not her fault and I refuse to lay blame on her. Whatever the hell is wrong with me, its all me. Something is broken in me somewhere. I want to be happy, but it never lasts.

I told her that I'm seriously thinking about going to therapy. Maybe some outside help is what I need. I've been fighting these feelings on my own for a very long time and look where it got me. Nothing but pain and fucked up addictions. Something has got to give.