I've slipped through everyone's life. I fell by the wayside on their paths through time & have always been the one bumped off of their list of thing to think about. To worry about.
Since I've gone unnoticed for so long, I have a general lack of acknowledgment from all. I hate the idea of seeking attention. I truly do. & the placement of my scars do not support the idea of my actions as a cry out. However, I can't help but wish someone would see them. Only once did I run a blade across my skin in hopes of acknowledgment. Upon my arm a three inch scar lies & its purposes was to get my parents to fucking realize I'm not okay. I'm not o-fucking-kay. But of all the scars I wear, that one is the one I regret the most. That one is the one I hate the most. I don't know how much animosity I would harbor if I had achieved my goal, but I don't have the opportunity to know. Because my parents never said a word. They never had the decency to care.
My therapist has informed me that every person craves attention. Craves acknowledgment & it is only human of me to take drastic measures to receive it. To bad it didn't work. She said it was only normal & understandable that I cling to those who provide it. But I know I'll drive them away because of this. But I just don't know how to control it. Manna sure is a hell of a drug.
I know that when I was still hooked on the drug of pain, of blood, I would have denied any implication that I was practicing self-mutilation. That I was a cutter. Because anyone who has a secret knows that if they wanted to truly stop, then they will seek help. Denial is an easy thing, & it is always used if you're complacent with the way things are. But I just can't wrap my head around the fact that I meant so little to everyone that not a single person knew. Not a single person saw. Not a single person guessed. Not a single person inquired. Not a single fucking person cared. But I'm used to this by now. Some scars 6 fucking years in the making. Most scars almost 7 years old. Only few have faded, because it's difficult for the red to grow fainter with time if they continue to be reopened. To bleed again. No one has seen them. When someone finally does, I haven't truly settled on any actions, but I think I might tell the truth. Because if they notice, they must fucking care.
This lack of attention is like a gun and blows my mind against the ceiling, that has been waiting to meet me for years now. I mean yes, the majority of the scars lie on my legs, but not all of them. The cry-out to my parents lies on my right arm. It was deep & gritty, but has faded by now. Yet, no one noticed. No one asked. I hung out with my cousin the very next day. No inquiry. Although the ones on my legs are hidden by pants, & long shorts, I do own a pool. A fucking pool. Come on people! I've had pool parties! Nope. Gym shorts are a bit shorter than my taste. Nope. Changed in front of people in gym. Nope. Yes, I did change in the bathroom when things got too rough, but not always. I cut a few lines on my leg when I was on vacation. Yeah, I know my parents don't give a damn about me enough to notice, but I was with a friend. Red lines appear on my leg but she doesn't notice. Then again she spent most of the day either on her phone or in the internet room talking to her best friend.
Besides the physical signs, there was a bit more obvious one. If you haven't caught on by now, I am a poetic person. Well, not only does my everyday writing portray this prominent aspect of myself, but I write actual poetry. I have since elementary school. Despite my love for stringing beautiful words together, the poetry isn't actually written well. Just look at this blog. But nonetheless, I shared it. I am a very private person, & I don't normally share things that show my flaws, but I did share my poetry. With many people actually. If you're a close friend of mine, & sometimes that's not even a requirement, then you've read my poetry. My best friend in middle school, & most of high school, has read almost every poem I've written. She wanted to be my "editor" when I published them. She sure let me know they were crap. But here is an example of that crap. An old piece of writing:
Lying to myself:
Wishing that the day will fade
I want to chase the pain away
Shooting pain
And little scars
Wishing on
Fallen stars
Bleeding out
All my shame
There is comfort
In this pain
The same routine
With every night
I somehow think
This wins my fights
I do not cry
Insted I bleed
My scars show how
I hate me
As time goes on
New scars appear
Sometimes I wish
I wasn't here.
But I wake
To a brand new day
And as time goes on
Like Scars, I fade
A few people have read this poem, & many others like it, yet no one has noticed that they aren't just words. I'm pretty sure this is blunt. I know poetry can be subtle, but I think this is fucking blatant. Why did no one worry? Or question? I turned a poem quiet like this into an english class in 6th grade & again in 7th grade for assignments. Nope. Not even they worried. Aren't they supposed to?! Isn't that their job?!
I have actually posted some of my work on line (http://paperbags7.deviantart.com/), & that same friend has an account there too. A poem of mine reads:
they are just little reminders
that I failed once more
my little kisses of disapointment
the stains of my affliction are washing away
you have made me perfect once more
& she commented: "My little kisses of disappointment"
GAHHH. I really like that line! The sexy poet is back! "
One, it is one of the only compliments she's ever given me, but it comes at a bitter price: that she didn't see what that line was even saying. But then again, no one has. Everyone has read them.
I can't change the fact that no one cares. I got by without anyone. Without anyone noticing I was suffering in silence. But in reality screaming out until my lungs collapse & my heart gave way. I need not be bitter that no one has even given a fuck about me, & instead realize, thatI am stronger than I think I am. That while others need these vast support systems to keep them afloat, I got through everything I have without help. Without a single person for support. That I stopped a six year addiction on my own, where people go into rehab for less intense ones. I stopped myself from taking those pills. That I can get through anything. & from here on I do have a copilot. A support system. It might not be very sturdy, but It's not going anywhere.
Farewell all. If you ever want help & don't seem to be getting it from anyone in your life, know that you can do it on your own. It's not ideal, & when you look back you might have wish you called it quits, but you never know. You could find true happiness in the end. Happily ever after is just for fairy tales, but that doesn't mean better than today lives in tomorrow isn't for reality, & you're reality at that.
"So, if you made it
Just be glad that you did and stay there
If you ever feel loved or needed
Remember that you're one of the lucky ones "
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