"Just so you know, I wasn't trying to off myself or anything. It's just something I do sometimes."
"Doesn't it hurt?"
"Feels better."
"Than what?"
"Everything else."
-from 28 Days


While I can't see myself drifting into drug abuse, I see eating disorders, self-mutialation, stalking and violence as all extremely probable chapters in this fucked-up book de moi. I'd like to think that if I was going to get hung up on drugs, at least, I would have done something besides one sip of rum and sniffing white out by now. But maybe my delusions are as false as any junkies.

She had just cut herself, the girl in 28 days, because she was in rehab and her mother was supposed to visit her for a family day and hadn't. "I make her embarrassed." She said. Self-mutilation is one of the more esoteric forms of self-abuse, and while I can't say that I understand it, I don't think I'm as mystified by it as others. It's almost logical to me. But only at certain minutes.

No, I haven't done it........not in any formal sense, anyway. I have been known to bang my head repeatedly against brick walls from time to time, and I remember almost entirely one night of tossing and turning in my sleep until my anger- for Mr. Ladd- turned violent and I scratched at myself with unparalleled bloodlust- I wanted him to feel it, to wake up from a sound sleep covered in sweat, to not be up all night and have the feeling of uneasiness follow him throughout the day, and never ever completely disappear. And then I wanted him to see me again, just once, and see the deep-set scratches, and get nauseous. I scratched and clawed until on the brink of bleeding, groaning and growling and screaming in my bed, and when I was just about to break the skin, I stopped. I breathed hard, in and out. I hated myself for my weakness, all of it. I started to cry. I wanted to die.

I got up, and turned on the light, and I went to my desk. My hands reached out, touched the box cutter, picked it up, traced the blade. Then I put it down and picked up the pen and notebook beside it.

*

I hate you
I hate that you left me so weak
I thought that is was strength you gave me
But it was weakness
Made me too weak to write this in blood
Kept me so brainwashed that
I’ll thank you for that one day
Believe it
Kept me believing in you so strong
I hate you

Hate that you’ll never know about the words
written
On pages and pages of journal
That I never would have kept
without you
And I thought that was strength
It’s corruption.
People like you aren’t beauty
You’re the effects of the drugs
That keep me psychologically addicted
To life
You bastard
It’s a drug
Whoever convinced you
To convince me
Otherwise should die
because I’m forgiving
But not of you.

I just found meaning
in a song
That is you
And I thrashed in my bed
And scratched myself
How do you like that?
Scratched at my flesh
Because of you
Not hard enough to leave scars
Because of you
Not deep enough to bleed
Because you left me too weak
I thought that was strength
But I’m too weak
To write this in blood
Withdrawal
I thought you were good
You were just the effects of
various uppers
‘Cept not on my mind
On my soul
I wanted you to
feel the nails
Leaving no scars
Leaving you awake
And disturbed
And throbbing
In bed
As I am
Without you
I HATE YOU

I hate
that I love
you.
That I will never shake the
Belief
that you loved me.

Be proud of yourself- this is
ink
you bastard.
Did your dirty fucking job
“Well”.

*

That was the result. I don't cut, I write. Hopefully things that might one day make other people feel badly enough to cut....or, hey, I could be noble and say "that will inspire them not to". But either way.

I cut once. My friend was abusing pot to the extent that it was beginning to do to his life what more damaging drugs generally do to others. So I convinced him, online, that I had taken up, just then, self-mutilation. It wasn't much of a thing, a scratch that bled. Did with a broken disposable razor. I hadn't the slightest clue how to make it bigger or deeper- I was a rookie at damaging myself purposefully...physically anyway. It did it's job, however- in the midst of both our tears and frustrations, I made comparisons that made him realize how I felt every time he told me what he had done. Since then, the problem has subsided....I don't know if it would or wouldn't have had I never cut myself, but if he starts up again, I think I will, as well.

And that will make everything all better, won't it babe?



My name is Linda and I am a BITCH when it comes to making my point loud and clear. On with it.