Where Were You? A Cry for Those Who Feel Forgotten.

In the months following my 'release' from inpatient treatment, I've joined a writing group. 
I joined on the premise that it seemed to be a very relaxed, sociable, light hearted group which, whilst keeping 'writing' at its core, didn't take it all too seriously.
As it happens, my impressions of it were correct. We meet on Tuesday evenings in a pub. A good situation (although, for those of us with Anorexia, the calories in alcohol are enough to send us running for the Diet Coke).
The group is made up of characters who are intriguing, inspiring and... talent wise, fairly intimidating! Although I can only recall one person who is remotely self important, most of the regulars (around fifteen or so) are published; some are even fairly prolific writers. 
Tonight there was a 'showcase' evening. where folk were invited to read something they'd written in the past.
It would have been too revealing, too personal, but a poem I wrote (and posted here years ago) has been in my mind, (called forth in a very roundabout sort of way) by a poem I read on someone else's blog. An honest poem about desperation and despair.

This poem was written in the aftermath of my own depression, and is not without its own, very potent, sense of anger. I apologise in advance if readers find it offensive. I post it here as a kind of offering to those who have suffered in silence, or have been unheard.
It's for those untouched by comfort, not necessarily because it wasn't there, but because the pain was in a hidden place.
It's a bitter cry, best cried alone, but until it's been cried, it can't fall away.

Where were you when I needed you?
When darkness cast death into me?
I bled black for years
Tears turned to stone and I screamed
each time I passed a tear through ducts
too small for stones.

Where were you when I had words,
to spill and spout and squander?
And my arms ached and ached
from holding the binding skeins apart.
And I retched unseen as they tangled
and strangled deep in my gut.

Where were you when I was fighting?
Punching holes into a silent wall,
Spitting truth bullets into denial’s flesh,
Kicking the dust and biting angry hands
that levered my bitten swelling lips apart,
and rammed words back down my throat.

Where were you when the salt burned like sulphur?
My beaten pillow, wet with censored pain
And twisting, I writhed with the knowing
Of things yet unknown.
And my cheeks smarted with their rage
Truth- shy handprints scorched my skin

Where were you when nothing was left
When slivers of cold metal comfort
Whispered sweet numbing into flesh
And I bled silent pools of hidden screams
On shiny, hard bathroom floors

Where were you when sweat and tears
Plastered matted hair to my face?
Smothering silent screams,
I twisted and turned and gasped,
As I aborted myself
and bled secret shame
onto my sheets

And it’s too late now
For your saving reach
My cold corpse
Can’t feel your comfort
And it’s too late now
To breathe life
Into the bloodless womb

“I want to understand”
Echoes in the hollow
And I am filled with sickness.
And grief swells like thunder

In my head
I spit on your floor
And walk away.
You can pay your respects
But don’t fuck with the dead.

Apologia

Sometimes I have something I want to say but I can't find the energy to piece the words together. It's been like that for days now, and I'm now expending more energy on NOT writing than I would otherwise do in making the attempt.

So here goes.

My Blog...

When I first entered the blog sphere, it was as a teacher in search of colourful or comical images which I could use to liven up worksheets and teaching resources I was

creating.

A Google Image search for "mountain" may link to a post about somebody's holiday; somebody's love of climbing; advice on mountaineering equipment; an obsession with Everest;

somebody's personal obstacles or victories; the view from somebody's back garden...

I loved it that, just for one moment in time, I could dip into another world, culture, mind, heart. It felt like a privilege to glimpse the world through the eyes of someone I would never know and I loved the bizarre juxtaposition (and I'm sorry to use such a word but I can't think of another) of intimacy and anonymity offered by a blog.

I didn't realise that blogs could be 'followed' by strangers who may become friends in the virtual world. I didn't have a clue that there was a relational aspect to them, and I certainly never dreamed that anyone would sustain interest in anything I wrote.

The notion of blogging became attractive because so much of what I feel and experience feels as though it belongs to a part of me that couldn't be shown to others. A part of me that is too dark, too honest, too pained, too tired... too something.

A diary was too risky. I've kept them before. Dangerous things, diaries. You end up lying half the time... just in case...

I liked the idea that some random person, sitting, standing, lying anywhere on earth, in an office, classroom, lounge, hut, hospital, cafe, bedroom, could hear my voice.

Just for a moment in time.

And that's all this blog was.

A glimpse. A raised eyebrow every now and then. A sound bite.

I like it that I am not 'known' and yet can be heard

I admit to struggling with the fact that not only do some followers feel that they know me, but they have also come to 'care'.

Intimacy is an itchy jumper.

As I type, I am inwardly howling with frustration at sounding so ungrateful.

I have appreciated your words. I have come to care too.

*wince*

The split in me hurts. I am torn by wanting care and wanting to yell at everyone to stay away from me.

Before disappearing into sleep, I should probably conclude by saying that this blog is not about anyone apart from me (yes, it's a very selfish blog).

Anything posted here is an expression of something I am feeling or thinking about. It will have been posted either because of a drive to somehow put it 'outside' of me, or because of an urge to 'create' words for it.

I have no need to be understood or cared about here. I'm not looking for anything other than a little space, on a vast web, where I can be heard without being known.

Intimate and Anonymous.

I will remember, next time I need to exemplify an oxymoron.

In My Defence

I'm not going to even begin to try to analyse the 'whys' in terms of why I feel the urge to somehow protect and defend myself; mainly because I want to continue dwelling safely within the confines of the (disturbingly teenage) brick walls across which, the slogan, "you will never hurt me as much as I can hurt me" is emblazoned in dripping, white spray paint. Did I mention how safe it is here? No? Well then... allow me to explain that when I am here, nothing and no one can touch me. Even if they could cut my skin I wouldn't feel it.

In therapy today I discovered that the reason I binge (an, oh God, I'm still in the midst of a two day, non stop binge) may be similar to one of the reasons I cut. (And yes, I know you feel disgust).

It is just another attempt to do something physical in order to somehow correct / comfort / smother what is at heart, emotional

When it feels like the emotional pain is unbearable, I attempt to put it on my skin... to literally, put it on the outside of me.

When it feels as though the inner emptiness will make me implode, I attempt to physically fill the abyss.

I might be talking crap (yeah... I know. what's new?) but it's something that was discussed this evening.

Another thing was the theme of 'explosion' being the main feature of my recurrent dreams right now.

"Except," she said, "you don't EXplode, you IMplode"

"Yeah" I agree. "Yeah. Nobody would see anything had happened"

"No. All the debris is on your inside"

I thought about the blackened landscape and almost mentioned (and then thought better of it) the countless little deaths I have died and the piles of little corpses that I contain.

What am I saying? How is this a defence?

Well... you might well ask.

As per usual, I seem to have strayed from the path...

It is important to me that you guys (those reading) know that, although you may think me the number one favourite for winning the "Little Miss Can't Appreciate The Blessings She Has Cos She Is So Busy Being A Pitiful Misery Award 2010", in real life (and by that I mean, anywhere except the world of cyber - and the woman's room , which is almost as unreal) I am fully functioning, well respected young lady who you would have to be exceptionally sneaky to catch without a smile or a quip.

Part of the reason I made this space is because there is little or no space for this level of honesty in my real life. The position I hold at work, the responsibility I have for others, the fear of disgust... all contribute towards making it near impossible to show any of the stuff I write about here.

As I explained in a response to ABM, I have two very separate parts with this stuff. The first is covered in long spikes and says, 'if you don't like it, get lost'. It's an angry part that wants to lash out at you, but will instead, tear deeply into flesh that cannot be seen.

The other part of me recoils, disgusted at myself, horrified that I am daring to write, revolted by the fact that anyone would read here and say ANYTHING other than, 'WS you are a vile, Godless, self obsessed, self centred, selfish, miserable, ingrate worthy only of disgust'.

I am frightened of this response and yet, I think I deserve it. I'm angry before you say it, and yet I know it is true. In short, nobody who reads here will EVER feel the same degree of disgust towards me as I do.

I HATE the person I am on the inside.

This person you hear here.

It's a big part of the problem because, whilst nobody knows I'm like this, I am, and whilst I am, I can never be known.

I realise that people can see an issue with my weight, but I can fool them as soon as I open my mouth. Nobody who hears me sounding SO sound minded and wise would ever believe I have a disorder.

Trust me, if you KNEW me, I'd have you fooled too.

So, don't go thinking that I am some pathetic, hapless, little creature who you could slap some sense into.

You wouldn't ever see the need for that if you didn't read here.

Razors and Release.

I have so many words but feel overwhelmed at the idea of trying to piece them together. They swell and tumble, a disparate wave of words and feeling. The wave itself a spectrum of sensation, utterly numb at the base, raw at the breaking crest.

If I could somehow figure out what is going on to cause this level of desperation I might have a hope in hell of controlling it.
These last few days, well... weeks really... I have been fighting (and, shamefully, frequently losing) a battle against the urges and the desires I have to hurt myself in whatever way I can.
Yes.
Self harm.
Controversial. Taboo. Disgusting. Shameful. Painful. Desperate.
And yet, comforting. Releasing. Soothing. Calming. Cleansing.

A paradox and a half.

There are so many different perspectives on self harm that it's hard to keep up.
"Attention seeking" is the label that is possibly the most damning and the most hurtful to those who have to exert such incredible control by resisting the urge to just let rip on themselves. Instead they have to confine the screaming of their stories to such small areas of the body, the most hidden parts.

Tonight, just as many nights this week and the week before that, I stand on the brink of my own desperation to destroy. I fight from a part whose objections I repeatedly overrule, even as it reminds me and warns me of the physical pain I will be faced with when I trample over its defeated form in the rush to reach the razor.

People self harm for a wide variety of reasons and certainly, nowadays with the youth heavily influenced by 'emo' culture and the like, it is quite common; a disturbing trend borne, it would seem, out of a search for identity. Whatever happened to clothing being the defining feature in "teen stereotypes"? It's no defined by the number and depth of the cuts on a wrist.
I digress.
For me as an adult, it's primarily either a release of anger, a punishment if I feel let down, a purging of feelings that I can't hold in, or a response to uncontainable self hatred.

True, I started cutting as a teenager. I was fourteen and unable to speak about the fact that my sister was starving herself to death. Faced with the reactionless faces of my parents, the point blank denials that anything was wrong, and the stinging discipline that met she who dared to contradict; the pain started to spill out in secret ways using a different language. A language of pain which doesn't need to be heard to bring relief, only to be spoken.

At first, it wasn't as good as being able to talk to a grown up, but it made the clamour inside me quieter, and came to be far more effective, and practical, than needing anyone.

Great, you think.
So...
That was THEN. This is NOW.
My past is not my present.

And yet, something died in me back then that I miss in my present.
It wasn't my sister, although I no longer know her, so in some ways, perhaps she was the greatest loss of all. But something in me died and I can't revive it.
Maybe that is what therapy is for. To resurrect what is dead.

I am ashamed to admit that my mind feels invaded with fantasies of what I will do to hurt myself.
Goodness knows if you knew me in real life you wouldn't see a shadow of a ghost of a trace of the truth that I am someone who would ever imagine such fantasies, let alone indulge them.

I sound vaguely like a psycho but you'll just have to take my word for it that I'm the smiley girl you pass on the way to work. I'm your kid's favourite teacher. I'm the one who you come to when you need someone to listen and understand. I'm the one who you can count on to write a list of your problems and work out how you can tackle them in a way that feels manageable and is realistic.

It defies my own understanding then, that that same smiley, logical, responsible empathic, problem solver who is relied on by so many can be so consumed by such a desperate desire to violate her own body.
I'll spare you the details.

Ice -olation

The other evening, I hurt someone to hurt myself.

Now, I'm sitting on an iceberg, wrapped in razor wire, in the middle of a half frozen sea.
If I move, the wire sinks deeper in and anyone who comes close will be shredded.

Writing this, I'm wondering whether I am perhaps, waiting until my flesh is so frozen that I can no longer feel.

I can't believe I hurt someone else so much.

In My Defence

The last post I wrote here was a very hard one for me.
Discussing my sister, trying to capture even a snapshot of the past, feels like a very hollow endeavour. It's as though language was not really created for such depths of pain...
I realise, with a large degree of shame, how melodramatic that sounds... Almost as though to imagine or to admit that anything over superficial pain / suffering is a form of arrogance, worthy only of disgust or dismissal.
I also realise that admitting to suffering leaves me open to the thing I fear the most, which is being branded as someone who has a 'victim' mentality, deemed 'pathetic' or known for showing a lack of resilience.

All this in mind, I feel the need to defend myself against the potential judgements that might be made by asserting that:

1. I do not talk about my family or my sister's illness to anyone.
2. Outside of family and a few old friends, nobody would dream that I struggle with life in any way.
I am regarded as a person who is wise, self aware, stable, grounded... whichever of those kind of terms you use, I'm it.

So... Don't go thinking that I'm some rather weak, pathetic, hapless little creature who bathes in soft self pity and then wraps themselves up in the fluffy words of whoever wants to listen.
I'm not.
Nothing inspires greater disgust in me.

It has been a huge fear of mine that, in writing this blog, in writing about the things that have impacted me, blown me apart, people will judge me to be something repulsively feeble. Now that I come to begin to write about what has been, I feel that fear all the more acutely.