Burn, baby burn
Sometimes nothing calms my nerves like self-injury. It's been ten days, which seems like a big deal, considering how razor-happy I've been all semester (and I'm not talking about shaving my legs; I'm as lazy as any other Bard chick when it comes to that). Tonight I used a lighter. Yes, sometimes hot metal searing my flesh appeals more than hugs. Because there are only three people in this house right now, and I don't want to be touched by any one of them. Mom has enough to deal with. Adam is crazy when he's not busy being an asshole. And his current chick is... well, his current chick. I don't want to think about that just now. Mom and I were in the kitchen discussing how to present my situation to my shrink (the one who told me I'm a mess). I reiterated how I know I'm a fuck-up; I'm a chronically ill binge drinker, not a retard. Catching the tail end of this, Adam wanders in and says, "Yeah, we know you're doing this on purpose."
WHAT THE FLYING FRENCH-FRIED FUCK?! I'm "doing this on purpose?" This, coming from a douche bag who does nothing but weed and girls he doesn't respect. A douche bag who doesn't even spend his own fucking money. A douche bag who smokes so much pot and is so self-absorbed that he fears the repercussions of articulate individuals relaying his infractions on LiveJournal. I shouldn't be hurt by this. And at first, I wasn't. We have the same genes, after all. He got the ADHD, and I got the eating disorders and penchant for alcohol abuse. This time Adam isn't the sole reason I hurt myself.
I saw it coming before I took the first sip. I got drunk, and it didn't feel as good as I wanted it to. It couldn't mask everything that's rendering me incapable of leading a normal life. Often it does. But not tonight. So I used a lighter to burn over my scars, and I did it five times because I couldn't feel it enough. I ached all over today. I forced myself to go for a walk, just to see how messed up my legs are. Six hours later, I embellished my gimpy legs with some superficial wounds because chain-smoking simply isn't self-destructive enough for me. Tomorrow, I'll have fun with my blisters. I don't know why I still do this. I'm 21 years old, dammit. I don't hate myself as much as it seems. I just know I'm better than this, but feel stuck in a nihilistic mindset and a smug old house that likes to haunt me with abrasive memories. How's that for pathetic fallacy?
I probably should have written this in my paper journal, because then I won't be suspected of attention-seeking behaviors and there will no questions to answer when I'd rather be popping burn blisters with safety pins. I don't know why I'm in front of a computer right now. Maybe it's better for my fingers to be dancing across a keyboard than grappling for a lost knife. No one can help me until I'm ready to stop tearing myself to shreds. God, this entry sucked.
WHAT THE FLYING FRENCH-FRIED FUCK?! I'm "doing this on purpose?" This, coming from a douche bag who does nothing but weed and girls he doesn't respect. A douche bag who doesn't even spend his own fucking money. A douche bag who smokes so much pot and is so self-absorbed that he fears the repercussions of articulate individuals relaying his infractions on LiveJournal. I shouldn't be hurt by this. And at first, I wasn't. We have the same genes, after all. He got the ADHD, and I got the eating disorders and penchant for alcohol abuse. This time Adam isn't the sole reason I hurt myself.
I saw it coming before I took the first sip. I got drunk, and it didn't feel as good as I wanted it to. It couldn't mask everything that's rendering me incapable of leading a normal life. Often it does. But not tonight. So I used a lighter to burn over my scars, and I did it five times because I couldn't feel it enough. I ached all over today. I forced myself to go for a walk, just to see how messed up my legs are. Six hours later, I embellished my gimpy legs with some superficial wounds because chain-smoking simply isn't self-destructive enough for me. Tomorrow, I'll have fun with my blisters. I don't know why I still do this. I'm 21 years old, dammit. I don't hate myself as much as it seems. I just know I'm better than this, but feel stuck in a nihilistic mindset and a smug old house that likes to haunt me with abrasive memories. How's that for pathetic fallacy?
I probably should have written this in my paper journal, because then I won't be suspected of attention-seeking behaviors and there will no questions to answer when I'd rather be popping burn blisters with safety pins. I don't know why I'm in front of a computer right now. Maybe it's better for my fingers to be dancing across a keyboard than grappling for a lost knife. No one can help me until I'm ready to stop tearing myself to shreds. God, this entry sucked.