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There are times when I just stop to look around, and it all baffles me. Diaries full of cryptic entries, and how much does this really say about me, what does it matter ultimately?
I've never kept a journal for so long. The only other one lasted about a year, and lives somewhere in a box where I don't look at pages covered in heavy black ink, smudges and bloodstains. Because yes, there was that period of time when I razored myself over and over because I was so overwrought. There's a stigma in admitting to that kind of self mutilation, because we all like to think that only happens to certain people. I am that person though, and I did it. Should I be ashamed? I don't think so. I know exactly what I am. I know there were moments in the past year where I sat on the edge of my bath tub holding blades to my skin and wondering if I should do it again. It would be dishonest to pretend I didn't.
I carried a lot of my pain in radio songs, driving with the window down and the music up. I can count all those passengers, real and imagined, all the people I hoped would listen to me singing along with the words. Ultimately we're so alone, except for these moments in time when we find that connection with someone else. For all the rest of the time, it's just you and you alone. I've come to the conclusion that it only matters how you live with yourself and your ghosts. That you have to be able to answer to yourself for your own life.
Sometimes, someone will say to me, "You are so strong." I never know how to respond to that, because I don't feel it. I suppose I must be on some level, to have survived to the point of writing maudlin and pointless journal entries when I should be in bed. You never want to be that strong though.
Take back your life.
I've never kept a journal for so long. The only other one lasted about a year, and lives somewhere in a box where I don't look at pages covered in heavy black ink, smudges and bloodstains. Because yes, there was that period of time when I razored myself over and over because I was so overwrought. There's a stigma in admitting to that kind of self mutilation, because we all like to think that only happens to certain people. I am that person though, and I did it. Should I be ashamed? I don't think so. I know exactly what I am. I know there were moments in the past year where I sat on the edge of my bath tub holding blades to my skin and wondering if I should do it again. It would be dishonest to pretend I didn't.
I carried a lot of my pain in radio songs, driving with the window down and the music up. I can count all those passengers, real and imagined, all the people I hoped would listen to me singing along with the words. Ultimately we're so alone, except for these moments in time when we find that connection with someone else. For all the rest of the time, it's just you and you alone. I've come to the conclusion that it only matters how you live with yourself and your ghosts. That you have to be able to answer to yourself for your own life.
Sometimes, someone will say to me, "You are so strong." I never know how to respond to that, because I don't feel it. I suppose I must be on some level, to have survived to the point of writing maudlin and pointless journal entries when I should be in bed. You never want to be that strong though.
Take back your life.