I am a Word that No One Ever Wants to Say.

ICMTMTB.
Wow. It is scary to write that down again. But it feels so great to let it out. To let someone know what it is.

ICMTMTB.
It is my creation. Yeah, it is just an acronym, but it became more to me. It became a living entity. Some living & breathing. Feeding off of me. A scary spark of an addiction.

ICMTMTB.
It became an obsession. My own little development that I nurtured & brought to life. It took over my life. Dark days.

ICMTMTB.
Repeated in my mind. Papers covered with this word. Etched into my skin. Like a number you become obsessed with, I began to see it everywhere.

ICMTMTB.
It began to sneak into my life & begin rooting itself in every part of my being. Trying to get someone to notice. Finding itself on random papers. My assignment notebook. Wanting to be seen. To spread.

ICMTMTB.
I began to chant it. When I was upset. Felt worthless. Felt unwanted. Sad. an association with the negative--all that I know.

ICMTMTB.
I have never spoken these words since 10th grade when things spiraled & I saw no end. These letters have not been written since then. I can feel my chest swell as my fingers easily find the keys.

ICMTMTB.
I have moved on, but have been carrying this weight for far too long.

ICMTMTB.
I'm shedding this part of my life. It will no longer control me.

ICMTMTB.
I cut myself to make things better.

Fall Through the Cracks. You Might Find that the True Beauty is Laying Underneath.

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 "

Love is Not Like Anything, Especially a Fucking Knife.

I'm going to delve into the inter-workings of my relationship with a hair-straightener & a exacto knife. That relationship was long & complicated, leaving me not just heart broken, but scared for life--literally.

Small, simple, safe price.

Small. I always knew that I was doing something very wrong & hurtful to myself, but I also believed that it was something very small & affected no one else but me, I know that it was supposed to affect everyone around me, but that is only true if they noticed. 5 years. (I say 5 because it was persistent, a few times a week, for 5 years & not as often for another year. So it really is six years.) so 6 years. 2,190 days. I went into pools. I changed in gym. I not only burned but cut while people were over. One time my back began to bleed in 10th grade gym. But no one noticed. No one. No one has ever asked me about my scars. Or my present wounds. I do have a cat, but my cuts sure were persistent for having de-clawed cats.

Simple. It was so simple. All I had to do was run a blade across my skin & things changed. I had control. I had comfort. I was the one causing the pain instead of someone else. Everyone else. I wasn't as weak, because I took things into my own hands. I could withstand the pain. Actually, I liked it. Like I said, simple.

Safe. Sure, it wasn't safe from a health standpoint, but it sure was safe in what I was aiming for. It was safe because I never failed--& that sure was something. Failing is something I am good at, & I exert the skill in all aspects of my life. But I never failed to draw blood, find comfort, do something right. & I gripped to that feeling. Although I never believed that I deserved anything more, I was always let down by other people. Others always failed me. & I always failed them. But this never failed to give me what I asked for. Every time.

Price. It is a price. Most of the time I hurt myself in order to gain control & it associated with rough days. If there was something that wounded me mentally, I'd cut & watch the pain bleed out, & the wound heal. Hoping that the other wound within me healed with it. That maybe I'd bleed away all of my flaws. Yeah, it didn't work. But I kept trying. But another way I used self-mutilation was for punishment. & I had to pay a price for the mistakes I made.

I want the pain of payment.

I feel like I must make a payment for the mistakes I made. A payment in pain. Well, I used to feel that way. Now I see that's wrong. The last time I self-mutilated, I was making a harsh payment for the huge mistake I made. That day I had an IB exam for my history course. I had studied hard & felt pretty prepared. When we got the test booklet, I read the questions & found three that worked perfectly. I had no problem writing them or working in the numerous facts I had memorized. When the test was over I felt pretty confident about how I had done. You know kids, everyone wants to talk about how they did on the test & what they wrote. Well, these high schoolers were no exception. I left the testing area & was instantly berated by friends on how I did. I'm not really a fan of sharing things like this with others because I never feel like I do well, & the few times I do I dislike the idea of bragging. Well, I couldn't, although I should have, avoid the talk this time & told my friend that I had answered this one question about blah blah. She informed me that we couldn't answer the question because it was the wrong decade. At that comment, I realized I had written absolutely nothing accurate in that essay. Yeah, I really fucked up.

My friend wanted to celebrate the end of history with me & we had planned to go to a late lunch after the test. If this hadn't been pre arranged, I would have not attended. But it had. & so I went. She decided to bring her boyfriend & good male friend along. I was already in a dangerous state but it worsened when I ate half of the food despite being full of disappointment. & I was completely left out the entire meal. It made my faking easier but it also lent no distractions to calm my upset mind.

I returned home to find my mother had returned. So my day was inevitably going to turn from crap to shit. When she inquired about the test I told her of my mistake. I know it was stupid of me, but hadn't I already proven I was an idiot? Well she had a lot to say. Needless to say, I was not the only one to physically hurt me that day.

I had already burned myself a few times that week. I had almost completely stopped cutting & only burned. Burns heal with no scar & the numbing effect doesn't always kick in. I had pretty much stopped constantly cutting two years prior in 10th grade when it got a little out of hand. I had been having a pretty shitty month with my mother & had cut my back once a day for twenty seven days. My back & my stomach, actually. I cut into my stretch marks mostly. I have a few strays on my legs & my arms, but scars bleed more & are easier to hide when I'm older. I also thought it only fit, that I was unhappy because of my repulsive size & the stretch marks were a result of my vile habits. Well, 27 cuts on my back is a lot. & I hadn't really planned them around my life at that time because my mother's moods often reined. Unfortunately for me, it was the testing week for physical education in gym the last week of my mutilation splurge. I already embarrassed myself beyond comprehension in everyday gym classes, but these tests never failed to make my hate for myself be turned up a few notches. & one of the devastating tests was curl-ups. Ah, curl-ups. Throwing your torso up towards your knees using your ab muscles (note, you must have those to be successful in this horrid test) & then coming back to the floor & then repeating as many times possible in a minute. I was normally only able to do about 3/4 of the number of the minimal requirement normally, but this time I only churned out 1/2. (if that) I just couldn't take the unwanted pain throbbing in my back. That was when my habit changed from an exacto knife being pulled across my skin, to a headed iron or heated spoon being placed upon my skin.

Wow, I diverged from the story I was telling. Let's get back, shell we? Okay, so after I talked with my mother, I went down stairs & went for my iron. I decided that it wasn't going to be enough & went to get my old friend from storage. My little box of wonderment. I went into the shower & turned the water on to as hot as it could be. No, not as hot as I could stand. In the ever growing steam I began to cut into my back. I moved on to the stretch marks in my inner elbow to the ones in my inner knees to the strange creases in my wrist. (yeah, I am unbelievably fat & have an unimaginable number of stretch marks.) I made 19 cuts. 19 deep cuts. Each gash representing an hour wasted on studying for that damned test. For all the hours lost. I stood in the scorching water until the bleeding subsided. 19 lacerations produce a whole lot of blood. I mean I'm using a razor, & we all know what it's like to cut yourself shaving. Well imagine doing it almost 20 times & a lot longer than a little nick.

Well, despite my disregard of health with cutting in the first place, I did keep everything very clean & sanitary. Normally, I would use peroxide to clean the wounds, but this time I used alcohol. Same effect just with pain involved. After losing so much blood, I felt very lightheaded & dizzy. I went & laid down in my bed & realized that I should probably get help. But I knew that I didn't deserve any help. So I decided to just sleep, which I did. Obviously, I woke up. Sore & wounded. But nevertheless, alive. I went to the bathroom & assessed the damage I had done. With how pale & weak I was, it was obvious that I was lucky I had woken. I looked into my eyes in the mirror, the last time I have, & told myself I didn't deserve this. & I haven't cut since. Yep, stopped cold turkey.

I can't say the urge isn't there. When ever I fuck up, I still feel an urge to hurt myself. Whenever things in my life began to get bumpy, & these last few months they seem to have turned towards the worse, I still want to feel pain. I don't think I could have resisted a few times without Shelly, no, I know I wouldn't have.

I believe in myself for once. I do feel weak most of my days, but I do feel like I'm strong enough to keep myself from relapsing. I know that I don't deserve it. That everyone else makes mistakes too. I realize now that it doesn't bring the type of comfort I need. Really, it didn't bring true comfort at all. My best friend, my Shelly, has somehow replaced the blade. She provides the comfort I need. Knowing that there isn't anything I can say to have her turn from me. That she is always there & always knows everything. I might end up failing her sometime, but I still gave her my trust, which she is the only one who has it. For she is the only one in my life so far that has earned it.

A blade might be a safety blanket, but it sure doesn't love you back.

I know this is a really heavy post, but I like the story because it is one of success. You can't reach the clouds without being at the ground first.

Farewell.

"Damaged people are dangerous. They know they can survive." –Josephine Hart, Damage

Webster defines it, but how real can that be?

Dictionary.com defines abuse as:
-verb
1. to use wrongly or improperly; misuse
2. to treat in a harmful, injurious, or offensive way.
3. to speak insultingly, harshly, and unjustly to or about
4. to commit sexual assault upon.
5. Obsolete. to deceive or mislead.
–noun
6. wrong or improper use; misuse.
7. harshly or coarsely insulting language
8. bad or improper treatment; maltreatment.
9.a corrupt or improper practice or custom
10. rape or sexual assault.
11. Obsolete. deception.
-Idiom
12. to abuse oneself, to masturbate.

Well. That's how it's defined so that must be it, right? Well, then you've never been the subject of the verb or had the noun used against you. Maybe you've gotten number 12 down, but that's something we're not going to delve into today. (Or ever.)

To treat in a harmful way. Well, that doesn't quiet cut it. Harmful can be very misleading. Harmful is such a vague word. I feel that these two syllables can not accurately describe years of verbal & physical attacks. Harmful isn't the word I'd use to describe her actions. Does just harmful give rise to the thoughts of suicide? Does just harmful breed the self-hate I have so incredibly strong for myself? Can just harmful induce a feeling of absolutely no self-worth? I really don't think so. This one word just doesn't measure up to what has happened to me. My biggest problem with harmful is that it means a minimal damage that has only a few effects to be felt. That the thing harmed, has a chance of full recovery. That everything can be reversed.

Well I'm sorry, this "harmful" behavior that is a pillar in my life can't just vanish. No matter how much progress I make or how new a person I become, the scars of my past will always exist. In all honesty, I do want to get better, but more importantly I want to grow in the right direction. I don't want to become a person with out a hard past, I want to be someone who is better because of their past. So I can be in recovery. Be in remission. But I can never be a person who never experienced abuse.

So if harmful isn't the right word to use, what is? How about: crippling? Malicious? Damaging? Toxic? Unbearable? Painful? For as a victim, that's how I feel. I don't feel like I was harmed. I feel like the pain I have endured has crippled me. Left me unable to form relationships. Unable to trust. Unable to love without fear. I feel as though she was, & still is, malicious towards me with her words & had absolutely no intention but to hurt me. Toxic. I have had a poison in my life that has weakened or diminished whole aspects of me. Shut me down, like organs fighting a disease. Things become too difficult, too unbearable, & I become so withdrawn that for 19 years no one knew anything really about me.

I believe the harsh & coarse language is hitting the mark. But it's missing the effects. That after countless numbers of "fat" & "ugly" that a person can't look in the mirror. That I can't even face myself. I see pictures & I just think it is a different person whose face doesn't belong to me. It is frightening that I can look in a mirror & not know the person staring back at me. With hollowness & fear in her eyes. Harsh & coarse words like "failure", "annoying", "stupid" lead to problems with basic skills. Like interacting with people, connecting with someone, communicating, & trust.

Trust is one of my biggest issues & should be somewhere in that definition. Not having the ability to trust the basic people in your life: your parents, how can you trust anyone else? In the end you can't. It's amazing I can somewhat trust myself. & even if you put trust in someone, you still doubt that you won't let them down or they you. Shelly is the greatest thing (not even person) in my life. She will never be able to understand what she really means to me. & for that my trust falters a bit. I know she would never want to abandon me, but because she truly doesn't understand, she might without even knowing so. She will never understand she is all I have. That she means everything to me. She means everything to nothing. & I can't help but fear that the trust won't be broken. Oh my, don't think that I believe she will abandon me because of her. No no. I don't trust myself in this matter. I think that I will fuck everything up. & I will lose her. That's why I don't trust people. A part of me protects myself from being hurt even more than I have.

Because I've never had much, I always thought it was because I didn't deserve anything more. But now I'm starting to see that I do deserve a Shelly. But I have to work at it. Have to keep myself & my dependency in check.

I'm chronicling progress right? Well, this sure is progress. I truly dislike the "a" word. I haven't ever said it out loud (I don't think). I have to realize what I'm going through in order to change it. I have to admit to myself that I am being abused in order for me to move on. & therefore I am. I am taking a step forward.

I am, & have been all of my life, abused.
I don't deserve the treatment I've received.
I will grow from it.
I will not lose any more than I have from it, that's you Shelly.
My mother has taken away the better part of me, but she won't take away the best thing I've found on my own.

So with those statements I'll leave whoever's out there. Farewell.

"I never yet heard man or woman much abused that I was not inclined to think the better of them, and to transfer the suspicion or dislike to the one who found pleasure in pointing out the defects of another."~ Jane Porter

Too Much Exposition.

Ah, no such thing. Well I guess in order for progress to fully be understood, the place I'm coming from needs to be put into context. So here is a what you need to know. The basics. A crash course. I'm sure details will weave themselves into my future posts, but here we okay:

So I'm 19. Yeah, young for such a bleak outlook on life, I know. But I was never really a kid, so I've had about 19 years of adulthood. I grew up as an only child in a semi run down neighborhood. My parents met in a bar (how romantic) & wed a year later. Never wanting to really settle down & have children, my abrupt addition to their life really screwed things up for them. Although their dreams were crushed, they never let them go. Instead they held on to them--but not as something to aspire to but rather something that could have been.

My dad and I are like neighbors. We know each other's names & are courteous to one another when we pass each other, but don't know what goes on behind closed doors. The sad part is, we live behind the same closed door, he just doesn't bother to venture very far into the home he's created. Home is a generous word. I defiantly live in a house that has never been a home. Sure, there are nick-knacks on shelves & furniture & personal rooms. But there isn't a family living in this house, so that "home" feeling just doesn't exist. Well, the family can't be a family if the father figure isn't present. Sure, he's there but he isn't a part of my life. He always worked long hours, so he was gone most of the day. Although when he came home, he'd proceed to watch television in the "family" room where I'm guessing family bonding is supposed to take place. Well, if that's so, I feel that the child should be allowed in when her father is in the room. As I've gotten older, my father has started working less hours, but he & I still rarely interact. I go weeks without saying a word to him. Now that I'm at college, he doesn't call. Well, because he doesn't care to know.

With a life she never wanted, a child that constantly fails, & a distant husband, my mother has a lot of aggression. I understand, she has a life she didn't ask for & had no control over. She was happy until shit just rained down. It has poured for over 19 years, & Noah's not coming for her with an ark. She hates her past, despises her future, & fears the consistency of life in the future. Like a wild animal suddenly caged without warning, she has a lot of aggression. She hates her life & guess where it turned towards hell? That's right, when she had a baby suddenly dropped in her lap. A baby she didn't want. Yeah, I know I know, she could have had an abortion if she really didn't want to have you. Nope, she had a freak pregnancy where she didn't find out she was pregnant until she was 6 months into the pregnancy & that was too late to terminate. So if this mistake ruined her life, it was to blame. When she got angry--it was where she released her emotions. She had very high standards in place for me all of my life. So high in fact, that I can't even tell you really what she was looking for. & of course I was never good enough, smart enough, thin enough, pretty enough, nice enough, I was never enough. & you must punish what fails. I was always pointed out the mistakes I made. All of them. & there have been many. & when she was having a bad day. A bad week. A bad year. I'd know. & I'd have the wounds to prove it.

They say you are what your parents made you. They hate me. I've heard. So I hate myself. If I can't even please the people who are supposed to love me unconditionally, how am I to love myself? I can't. I don't. I see myself for all of my countless flaws. I disgust myself so much I can't even face my reflection. I sometimes wonder how anyone can stand to look at me. & then I think "they look past it to see my inside" but then I know that doesn't work because my inside isn't pleasant either. I understand why I have few close friends, & it amazes me that I have them, because I don't even enjoy my own company. My mother always takes her anger out on me, & I do the same. For five long years of my life I practiced self mutilation. I've stopped now. It was hard, but I haven't relapsed since I told myself no. I can't say I wouldn't have been able to stay "clean" if it weren't for Shelly, but I still haven't hurt myself in 9 months. & I'm proud.

Besides my close relationship with self harm, I almost attempted suicide when I was 14. Yeah, those years were rough. But I was tired of life. With a note written, & the plan laid out, I was ready to take my life. However, I had never been happy. Never. & I wanted to know what that felt like. I couldn't die not knowing happy. Because I'm sure happy is something to live for. & believe me, it is. I've spent 19 years searching for that feeling. True happiness. & I found it less than a week ago. I couldn't believe that I could feel that way. No care in the word. Nothing in my mind, my heart, my body but joy & love. Real love. If you haven't felt that before, stick it out until you do. Because I don't think I lived until that day. & although I'm terrified that I will never feel that again, I won't give up trying.

Man, that's a lot of bad. Why not some good? Well, last entry I said that I had been at the bottom until a few months ago when I finally began my journey to the life I wanted. The life I deserved. I can't take credit for my change, because I couldn't have done it without my best friend, Shelly. She was with me every step of the way, even though she was getting lost with me. But we found the light. I truly love her. I don't think I love my parents. I do, because they raised me & gave me the necessities & are kind a lot of the time. But I don't think I love them. I always thought I did, until I realized I loved Shelly, then I realized what real love is. & what it feels like to be loved in return. The only reason being happy trumps loving is because Shelly was a part of my happiness.

So I'm on the long road of change, but I believe I'm headed in the right direction. & at least I have a co-passenger beside me all the way. & to be honest, I don't know if I would want to make the long journey without her to share it with when I get there.

So I said this was a crash course, well I might have lied a bit. But farewell for now, if anyone is even listening.

My favorite quote: "You are calm & reposed. Let Your Beauty Unfold."