Friday, April 1, 2011

November 1998 continued

*Written in 2005, this is an account of the the events that led to The Crew being seen and recognized. Diagnosis wouldn't be official for several months.*

Day in, day out nothing changes except I'm getting worse. I realize now that cutting is only one of the things I do to hurt myself. In all the years since I've used a blade, I've done other things like not eat, purge, punch walls and push my body past its limits just to feel pain. It's all about punishment and control and my body is the target. I realize I've known this and it's the only reason I've gone so long without cutting.

Somehow, understanding this makes it easier to pick up the blades again.  I tell myself at least it's honest and not hypocritical. The least I can do is stop denying my insanity. I've never really gotten better. I've just gotten better at lying.

I'm apart from it all now. Numb to everything but pain and shame. The family I love more than life seems so distant. They're not mine. This isn't my life. How did this happen? A family just means there is more to lose when I ruin everything again.

The blades are hidden in my drawer. Rubber tubes, used for exercising an injured shoulder... gauze... band aids... measuring cup.

It's easier to hide on the ankle. It's not like the wrist where people can point and judge. I've learned from those years in and out of hospitals. They laugh at you when you have cuts on your wrist. It's harder to do what I want to do there anyway.

Don't run the water over it. Measure what you lose so no one can call you a liar if you're caught. Only a pint. More than that is too much and too dangerous if I need to do it a lot. Less won't help enough. Be careful to clean up and never, ever leave evidence.

It's the only thing that quiets the noise. If only for a little while. Besides, it's the only thing I'm good at.


I don't know what to do. If I tell someone about the self-injury, I'm seeking attention. If I don't I'm not being honest with them. Isn't it important not to keep secrets? I need to tell them it's getting worse. I need to tell them how much I want to give up. This isn't fair to my family. I'm hurting Charlie and the kids. They deserve better. I'm destroying their lives. I don't know which is worse, killing myself and leaving them with the belief I didn't love them enough to fight or ruining their lives by staying. It's getting easier and easier to believe if I die, at least they have a chance to heal and move on without me there to make their lives miserable.

They were right all along. All those doctors, social workers, nurses and mental health workers. All those supposed professionals who said I'd never get better. They were right. I was stupid to believe I could do this and make it. Now more people will be hurt when I fail. How could I be so selfish to try to have a family and a life? All I can do is drag them down with me until I die or they finally give up and lock me away forever.

I call Pat every day. We talk for hours. I go to her house when I can't stand to be here. I can hide there and don't have to be alone. Pastor R is afraid to meet again. They're trying to arrange a day when more people can be there if I freak out again. Don't they get it won't be enough? Don't they get it's a losing battle?

I can't control my actions, my thoughts... things just happen and there's no one to blame but myself. I don't mean to yell at the kids. I don't mean to hide all day. I don't mean to hurt myself or panic. I don't mean any of it but I can't stop it.

She was always right. I am selfish. All I have to be thankful for and I'm miserable. Nothing is ever enough and I can suck the good out of everything. I should have died years ago. I was never meant to make it so long. Soon enough, everyone will figure it out and give up on me like everyone else has always done. Maybe then, I'll have the guts to give up myself and set them free.