Content warning: when I’m grouchy I get really gag-inducingly explicit about self-harm and suicidal ideation, I’m sorry. I’m sure it’s some kind of cry for help.
Some fairly dour free-associating around the feelings I get when I have violent emotions. I used to believe that I was an incredibly open person, and for a certain value of “open,” that’s true – certainly I overshare, you’d know that better than anyone. But there’s a degree to which I’ve been lying even to myself my whole life, not letting myself feel any kind of way about how I was treated. I can tell you all about what happened, but if you ask me how I feel about it, I’ll lie to you. I won’t mean to lie to you, but I will.
The feelings are there, though, and they’re rising. I’m aware now of a deep well of violent emotion, a thundering subsurface current. I can feel it more and more every day, and mostly it’s not pleasant. It’s not pleasant when it breaks through my skin, usually tearing it along the way, and it’s not any more pleasant when, much more often, it feels too big to ever get out, and while half of me screams, shredding away its fingernails at some basement door at the bottom of my being, the rest of me sits stone-faced, staring at the vanishing point. It’s a black hole of rage and misery that I can’t begin to measure at the heart of me, and yet it’s so perfectly and totally shut away, like a holocaust inside a snowglobe. It looks trivial. It looks empty and silly.
That’s why “silly” is the word I tried to carve into my arm with a plastic stylus, the last time I cut myself. The murderer inside me tells me that they’ll write that word on my tombstone after she cuts my throat, because “silly” is all there is to say about every second of my limping life.
My therapist suggested a constructive physical outlet. I find moving my body without a purpose to be frustrating. I’m very bad at staying upright on a bike for some reason (full of clums). I used to dance, but I’m even more weird about my body now than I was in high school, so it’ll be a challenge to get me to move it freely in a group environment. Also I’m poor and most of those things cost money, so… we’ll see. For now, you get mopey sonnets.
There is nothing that competes with habit.
Inertia drags you closer to the edge
but you can’t seem to summon any dread
can’t quite see your end and call it tragic.
Silence like swallowing a hurricane,
a wolverine that tears you up inside
but there aren’t any windows in your eyes –
the storm is gone as quickly as it came.
Each day starts with you circling the drain
see interesting things as you descend
you tell a joke and hear them yelp in pain
you curl up tight and find you can’t unbend
and though you can’t say just why you’re ashamed,
hell’s not the kind of place you take your friends.