(no subject)
The rain is coming down all around me. It is relentless. Pounding my back, penetrating my clothing and slowly caressing my skin. My sky is falling, crumbling around me. I am trapped. The razor in my hand feels cold and yet comforting. It is my salvation, saving me from the rubble, the devastation that is my life. Slowly I study my metal savior and grip it firmly in my hand. I no longer shake in my ritual. Slowly, tenderly, lovingly, I pull the blade across the tender unmarked skin on my hip. The release is immediate. The river of blood is my masterpiece as it flows down my leg in winding, twisting patterns. The pain is sweet and I savor it as some may savor an exquisite chocolate truffle. The blood continues to run thinned by the constant pain. The blood is a way to expel all that is in me, cleansing me of what my tears cannot.
I am my own primitive physician.
I need to feel my pain so that I do not implode upon my internal anguish. I need to make it real. My torment seeps from my fresh wounds.
And for a moment I am free. I slip silently past my mother siting in the living room and climb into the shower. The hot water embraces me. It knows and it is my only confidant. I whisper my secrets to the drops as they run down the drain never to tell a soul. I can't tell anyone else. I have tried the hypothetical proposition before in my head. And then I realize all the disasters that could stem from it. Cutting is only something "emo kids" do for attention. Adults always refer to cutting as "self-mutilation" or "abnormal behavior". I tell one of them and I have an immediate one-way ticket to the loony bin. And then where will I be? Who wants to be around a "crazy girl"? Who knows what she might do next. And I am not that stupid! I have seen the way they talk to the "mentally ill"; the politically correct term for people like me. I am very capable of reasoning and logic. Actually, my actions are quite logical. I can feel and cope with physical pain but I cannot control my emotions. If I can make my pain physical, then I can deal with it accordingly. Some people talk about their feelings as they sit on their oversize couches and articulate their concern over their recent decrease in cable channels. They have their way of coping and I have mine. Why should one coping mechanism be deemed superior to another?
I push my thoughts back to the present and everything I need to do. I slip on my white dress covered by my white gown. I complete the studious outfit with a cap, tassel, and cords.
Later in the gym my brain buzzes with anxiety, fear, excitement, and many other unidentifiable emotions. I numb myself. The speeches begin and the temperature in the gym rises to an unbearable swelter. Finally, all of the honorable members of the school board, community, and anyone else they could find are finished. The principal stands to announce the final speaker. "She is the president and the valedictorian of the senior class..." That is my cue. I stand and calmly smooth my gown. My walk to the podium is confident.
I smile at the crowd and begin my pleasantries. I gush about the wonders of high school and the anticipation of future success. They're all buying my charade as the always do. Inside I am recounting the pain that each classmate and teacher has caused me. I have a scar for each of them. They cover my hips, my feet, my arms, my stomach. But I smile yet bigger and state that "These were the best years of our lives".
They will never know.
I am my own primitive physician.
I need to feel my pain so that I do not implode upon my internal anguish. I need to make it real. My torment seeps from my fresh wounds.
And for a moment I am free. I slip silently past my mother siting in the living room and climb into the shower. The hot water embraces me. It knows and it is my only confidant. I whisper my secrets to the drops as they run down the drain never to tell a soul. I can't tell anyone else. I have tried the hypothetical proposition before in my head. And then I realize all the disasters that could stem from it. Cutting is only something "emo kids" do for attention. Adults always refer to cutting as "self-mutilation" or "abnormal behavior". I tell one of them and I have an immediate one-way ticket to the loony bin. And then where will I be? Who wants to be around a "crazy girl"? Who knows what she might do next. And I am not that stupid! I have seen the way they talk to the "mentally ill"; the politically correct term for people like me. I am very capable of reasoning and logic. Actually, my actions are quite logical. I can feel and cope with physical pain but I cannot control my emotions. If I can make my pain physical, then I can deal with it accordingly. Some people talk about their feelings as they sit on their oversize couches and articulate their concern over their recent decrease in cable channels. They have their way of coping and I have mine. Why should one coping mechanism be deemed superior to another?
I push my thoughts back to the present and everything I need to do. I slip on my white dress covered by my white gown. I complete the studious outfit with a cap, tassel, and cords.
Later in the gym my brain buzzes with anxiety, fear, excitement, and many other unidentifiable emotions. I numb myself. The speeches begin and the temperature in the gym rises to an unbearable swelter. Finally, all of the honorable members of the school board, community, and anyone else they could find are finished. The principal stands to announce the final speaker. "She is the president and the valedictorian of the senior class..." That is my cue. I stand and calmly smooth my gown. My walk to the podium is confident.
I smile at the crowd and begin my pleasantries. I gush about the wonders of high school and the anticipation of future success. They're all buying my charade as the always do. Inside I am recounting the pain that each classmate and teacher has caused me. I have a scar for each of them. They cover my hips, my feet, my arms, my stomach. But I smile yet bigger and state that "These were the best years of our lives".
They will never know.