Saturday, February 4, 2012

past.

I found some of my old written thoughts, and then I cried:

the pill.
I wake up every morning and take a pill. This pill makes me stop wanting to kill myself. This pill helps me live to see the next morning when I take the next pill to live for the next day.

I go to bed every night and take a pill. This pill helps me sleep through the thoughts of killing myself. This pill helps me sleep through the night to be rested enough to live through the day to take the next pill to sleep through the next night.   

Every morning I wake up, and every night I go to sleep, and I take pills that help me stay alive.

Sometimes I think about the pills. About why I take the pills. Sometimes I take the pills and wonder: if I take this pill to make me not want to die, what is the point in living? These pills don’t give me a will to live. They don’t give me goals or purpose. They don’t give life meaning, and they don’t make me feel better. They make me stop wanting to kill myself, a cognitive-emotional state much different from wanting to live.

I hate myself for being a drain on the healthcare system. My cognitive ambivalence is painful. I believe that people like me should be allowed to die. There’s no sense in medicating me to help me live. It’s not like I’m going to accomplish anything.


beauty.
I’m not a writer, philosopher or singer. I’m not famous in any way. I’m a ‘nobody,’ but I have nothing to lose. I don’t fit in with society. I never have. I have social anxiety and I cope by being obscene. People say I don’t fit in ‘the box,’ but that’s only because I don’t know where the box is.

I was always taught to write without contractions. I obviously don’t follow rules. I was also taught that perfect wasn’t perfect enough, and that people only love you if you’re a socially acceptable form of ‘beautiful.’ I’m not. I’m ‘quirky beautiful,’ and my hips and bum are too big to fit into brand name clothing.
 
Socially Beautiful: A state of being. Includes attributes such as: tanned skin, straight or wavy hair, blue or brown eyes, slender build, and flawless skin.

Quirky Beautiful: A state of being. Excludes attributes such as: tanned skin, straight or wavy hair, blue or brown eyes, slender build, and flawless skin. Includes attributes such as: pale skin, curly hair, green eyes, curvy body (and hips), and scars.
 
Most of my work is left unfinished.

Beauty is a social construct. I live in a society that doesn’t view my appearance as beautiful. After contemplating where I’d fit in best, I realized I don’t. My skin is too light for the cultures that I’m aware of that appreciate a thick build for women. My skin is too dark for those that favor paleness. I have a pink undertone, not olive or yellow. My hair is curly, but mousey brown. 

I’m Canadian, but I prefer ‘favor’ to ‘favour,’ ‘behavior’ to ‘behaviour,’ and so on.

Most of my work is left unfinished.



I found some of my old written thoughts, and then I cried.

I cried because I remember at one point being so sad that I didn't want to live anymore. I remember at one point feeling so alone. I remember at one point refusing to make plans because 'I'd probably kill myself before then anyway.'

And then I cried again because I'm so thankful that I have made changes in my life to make myself happy now. I love my friends and family, and I feel loved by them too. I feel socially connected. I have goals and aspirations. I found some of my old written thoughts, and then I cried.

Monday, January 9, 2012

hope.

One day I carved hope into my leg. Until recently, I never really experienced hope in terms of the optimistic emotional state. Self-mutilation was my idea of at least having some hope.

I felt like I had no one. 

I started hurting myself when I was in grade eight. My first “suicide attempt” wasn’t actually an attempt to die; it was an attempt to get affection and attention. My anxiety and depression started around the same time. I felt worthless. I felt like I was alone. I received a clinical diagnosis of depression and anxiety when I was in grade twelve, at which point my self-mutilation and suicide attempts became more frequent. I started having psychogenic seizures as a symptom of my pent up depression and anxiety. Although I sought help from a psychiatrist and a psychologist, I felt like I was moving through this emotional time alone.

In retrospect, my family was supportive of me. I was blind to this until years later.

One day I carved hope into my leg. I am haunted by my choice to self-mutilate.

I have made a number of changes in my life. I have grown as an individual. I have self-esteem. I have self-worth. I still struggle with depression and anxiety, but I am now able to cope. I am much stronger now than I ever was before. In fact, a number of friends have started to rely on me for emotional support. It feels foreign to me; I grew accustomed to being the person seeking support, not the one being supportive.

I’m proud of myself for who I have become.

One day I carved hope into my leg. I have scars that I hide under my clothes because I’m ashamed of how I used to “cope” with my feelings.
 
I feel sorry for myself, sorry that my self-esteem ever got that low, but at the same time I feel glad. I’m glad I had those experiences because they have given me more insight into life than I ever could have read in a textbook. I feel like I can sympathize with my friends from a common understanding of what it feels like to hurt, what it feels like to be sad, and what it feels like to be anxious.

One day I carved hope into my leg.

I hadn’t experienced hope in terms of the optimistic emotional state until now. I have scars on my body, but these experiences have carved hope into my heart. Even when I am feeling down, I still have hope – not just the word lingering on my skin, but that optimistic emotional state I once longed for.