Self Hate vs Self Love

Self love always sounds so foreign to me. I try. I try to do little things to care for myself, but it always seems so selfish and hypocritical. How can I take myself out to a coffee shop when I really hate myself?

I've lived most of my life thinking that the only important thing to be was smart. That is measurable, you can take a test and prove that you have a certain level of intelligence. Pretty? Talented? Whatever. Everything I do comes out wrong. Everything I say seems to come out worse! I just really do not like myself and its so hard to change my mind.

There's a song by Blue October called "Hate Me". Part of the lyric mentions 'suicidal hate'. I so understand that feeling, and I really wish I didn't.  My friends keep trying to change my mind, to convince me that I'm worthy of love, of care, of loving myself. Really I just hate looking in the mirror.

If any one of my friends were to talk about themselves the way I talk about myself, I'd do my best to put a stop to it, to remind them of how great they are, to love them. And they do the same with me... I'm just so far away that I can't hear it anymore, if I ever did.

Stresses of the Life

So many things going on that I really don't care to deal with. I have to go to the welfare office tomorrow to apply for food stamps again. The last time I went it took an hour, time before? Three hours. I hate going through all the hoops for this! Its stressful and makes me angry, urgy.

On Tuesday, I have an appointment, we're discussing diagnosis this time. She mentioned that she thought I may have PTSD, and I want to discuss that more. Honestly, its a bit scary for me. PTSD is not an illness that has "popularity" around here. Of course, most people lump it with the soldiers that return half crazy. I was never in that type of traumatic event. I suppose though, having trauma over a long period of time can result in a mild form of the illness. I won't know more until Tuesday.

I haven't been sleeping well, but when do I ever. Tired, chilled, depressed. I want to scream or injure right now and I have no valid reason as to why. So exhausted I want to cry. I'm actually rather jealous of TG, she can cry and feel better emotionally. I can't and I wish I could.

Request From the Doc

So today, Doc asked if I thought it might be helpful to myself if I let her see my scars. Really see them, not just the glances that I'm sure she's gotten. Honestly, I think it might be time. The thought alone makes me edgy and slightly panicked, I've never really offered to or allowed someone to see the scars. Nightengale is the exception. Maybe it would be helpful, to her and to me.

You see, self harm has become this huge secret that gets in my way. Maybe by allowing her in a little more, it'll help me to be more open in general? Am I scared? Yes. Am I willing to try something new? Yes. Do I think it'll help? I'm not so sure, but willing to try.

Honestly, the scars, while mentioned, are not address directly. Feels like an elephant in the room that I don't want to think about, which of course makes me think about it more. I think that showing her will take away some of the guilt or shame in hiding.

All right... here goes. Next week, I'll show her my scars. God... did I just say that? Must have done, I feel slightly nauseous. And a bit light headed. But there it is, I said it, I'll do it.

Thirty Day Challenge-- Earliest Childhood Memory

I think my earliest memory is of me at about three? My older half brother had taken my teddy bear and threw him on the heater vent. The house had one of those old systems in which the vent was metal and extremely hot. Mom had placed a string fence around it and warned me not to go there because I'd get hurt. My half-brother threw my bear on the vent because he was being mean and thought it was funny. I had to go over the string to get him, in a child's mind Teddy was going to get hurt and I had to help him.

I ended up hurting my feet from the heat on the metal grating. Mum scolded me for it until she found out why I went over there in the first place. I remember my idiot half brother got in trouble for it. I still have that bear and he's always been a bit singed. As a result, I never like that half brother. And I don't like people touching my stuff.

Next up: My Guilty Pleasure

What's the Hatter With Me?

I'm feeling a bit manic today. I can't keep still, I have to move something. My hands are shaky, a foot is tapping to nothing and not in beat with the music on the iPod. I went to bed upset, though I don't know why. Took everything I had not to scream my lungs out. Right now, I want to scream until my throat is raw. I want to cut until I'm a mess. The stinging would set me straight, at least a little bit right? Right?? No...? Oh well.

I don't know what's wrong with me, but its like I'm trying to crawl out of my skin. The sudden thought of throwing a rock through my bedroom wall came to me and now I'm having a hard time getting that out of my head along with the thoughts of harming. Oh the joy!

I have worship in about an hour, at least that's when I leave for it. Like this? Of course. By the time I get there I may even appear to be normal. I know I'm going to have to injure to get that done though. I'm too flipping out right now.

Did you ever see Johnny Depp as the Hatter? I feel that way, everyplace at once and only lucid when absolutely necessary. "What's the hatter with me?" Yep, crazy as a deaf bat in the nighttime! WOOHOO!

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.

Bad Week

Sometimes I wonder if everything I do is even worth anything. I have the hardest time just keep up my blogs, let alone a true life. I make mistakes and mine tend to be monumental fuck ups with horrid ramifications. For instance, I was scammed this week and basically gave away $2000 worth of the company's money. I don't want to go into details on the how because I don't want some mook to go about and scam some one else. Needless to say, I was rather surprised to still be employed. I was, however, written up and demoted. I can feel that I am on a very small tether and its being slowly cut from under me.

To add to it, my parents have expressed that they feel I should move out because they don't want to worry about me being able to live on my own. I know I can, that I could make a success of it. The issue is money. I haven't got any to spare. If I get state aide then its possible, but there are so many people who are waiting. I'd also need food stamps. My head starts to ache just thinking about it.

On one hand I would love to live on my own. I wouldn't have to worry about walking in my own house wearing a tank top, there would be no one to see my scars. No one would make comments such as "Did you play chicken with a cigarette, again?" Yes, my father has asked that, I usually ignore him. There was talk of my moving into the camper. That's fine with me, its big enough for one and my books. Dad worries about my living it though, emptying the tanks and such. I'd rather an apartment simply because it doesn't move with every damned step and its definitely big enough for all these books. But then we come back to how the bloody hell am I going to pay for it?

I'm getting edgy now, I feel like I need to injure. I'm stressing out about moving, strike that... I'm stressing about paying for it. I'm stressing about work. I feel like they are going to fire me. I just can't deal with that right now... I can't. 

Bruises and Lies

Most people are assuming that I have an abusive boy friend again. I don't a boy friend in the first place, let alone an abusive one. I had hit my forearm near the wrist, yes as self harm, and now its all bruised. I've been lying to people who ask saying I was horsing around at work. They believe me and that's fine. I won't have to tell them that I did it to myself to keep from screaming, that hitting my arm was faster then finding a blade or matches. I think I'll have to cover it with make-up today, just to keep the questions to a minimum.

Maybe I'm getting to the point where I no longer give a fuzzy rat's ass. That isn't true, I don't want anyone to know what I've done to myself. Its easier, I think. Definitely safer. The fewer people who know the less likely I am to be paraded around or "saved". I'm not dying, I don't need to be saved. Hell, maybe I do need it, maybe I do...

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-

Job Hunting

I am getting desperate to find a job. I'm going out of town soon and am hoping to have a job ready when I get back. I'll be out of a work almost a month by that time. Today, I spent all my time on the computer filling out applications. From 1100 till 1700 I was typing, filling in the blanks, and uploading my resume. I swear, I should be getting paid for this!

I have an interview set for teller at a bank. Not bad for a day's labour. I'll probably do it all again tomorrow. Also need to work on that cross stitch for Mom. I've been working on it off and on (mostly off) for the last eight years. Such a slacker I am!

We'll see how things go. I've been doing my part, plus a lot of prayer. All I can do...

Numb

I'm feeling numb. Cut last night and again this morning to feel something. If I'm not feeling numb, I'm feeling depressed, which is close to the same thing. Feeling lost, alone. I feel as if the love I have for people needs validation. I tell my parents I love them and they ask, "What are you up to?"

I just want to curl in bed and forget the world today. I'm so fed up with everything.

I went over the same place too many times when I cut, which I don't do normally. Now its deeper then the usual superficial cuts, so I have to watch it carefully today. God, I'm so stupid. Can't I be irresponcible and play hooky from work today?