Hitting Home

I haven't really talked about this before. But I feel I should right now. I'm hesitant in typing this up. It feels weird... But I've got to do this. Little by little.

Just now, I finished the last episode of the second season of the L Word on Netflix. Jenny... Jenny... Cut herself. She dug a small razor into her thighs. She hid it in her compact mirror and when she got out of the bath she took it out and started cutting her thighs. Shane finds her and stops her. They cry. They decide Jenny needs help. But... I cried, too. From the moment the camera first let you see her wounds. I almost started crying when they showed her taking out her razor. But... It shook me. It shook me up. In fact, I'm starting to cry again. I guess it... hit home.

I'm self-harm. That is a big part of my identity. The fact that I fought depression and that I really do try to be strong. The fact that there are still times where I struggle. To try to get away from cutting, I've drawn on myself. It's hard. Sometimes, the urge is so strong, all I can do is lay on my bed, curled up in pain. Yes, pain. Because the urge itself can be physically painful and resisting it, fighting it, makes it even more so. My scars are very faint, but that's just the physical ones. The other ones, the ones on the very inside of my being are much, much more hideous.

Why am I blogging this, you might ask? Because it's a real fucking thing. People actually suffer from it. We don't do it for attention. Usually, we do such a damn good job at hiding it that nobody even notices until it's too late. People need to know about this. They need to fucking get a clue and help those who can't recover on their own. Something as simple and trivial as just a "How are you feeling today?" or even a hug for no reason can sometimes be the best thing int he world.

For me, the defining moment was when, one day, at lunch, I rolled up the sleeves of my jacket and my best friend saw the marks in the inside of my left wrist. I always wore the jakcet and other long sleeve shirts to hide the cuts. But that day at school, I wasn' careful enough in hiding them. And it saved my life...

When ypou see someone who looks normal, happy, or whatever, but they have scars, cuts, and other marks on them, on their arms, their legs, their torsos, their hands, their feet, please take notice of it. Please, give them a hug. Please, take them aside and ask them about it. Because you could very well be their saviour.

Sometimes, it's easy to talk about self-harm, depression, starvation, suicide, other times, like this, I bawl my fucking eyes out. I have a deep feeling for this. I have a raw, sore, aching, wounded heart for this. Because I've been through it. And recovery isn't linear. Nor is it easy. The journey to recovery is a bitch. A long and hard one.

August, 2013... I was beautiful. I was sexy, confident. I referred to myself as a "Sexy Beast" and I had the most confidence I have ever had in my entire life. I want that back. I want it so bad... No more of this "I'm fat", "I'm fucked up", "I'm not worth it" bullshit.

If you have to look yourself in the mirror and tell yourself over and over that you are strong, beautiful, and that you can and will be happy and it still sounds like you're lying... then you have a problem.

In August 2013, my confidence was wrecked all in one fell swoop. It took so long to get it and yet so little time to kill it.

I began to starve myself. Barely eating anything, if I ate anything at all, during lunch at school. Eating the smallest amount I could get away with during dinner at home to keep my father and his wife off my back, so they would never suspect a thing of my eating habits. I didn't eat if I could avoid it. I lost 20 pounds.

In November 2013, after many suicide attempts, my best friend saw the cuts on my wrist. She asked me about it. I told her "Not here", so she pulled me aside and I told her... basically, everything. She was there for me. She was my go-to person whenever I was having a bad day or a bad moment.

I cried during Dead Poets Society.

I cried when talking about Leelah Alcorn on YouTube.

I cried when Jenny cut herself on the L Word.

I cried listening to Pierce the Veil's "Match Into Water".

I almost cried seeing the scars that covered the arm of one of the most beautiful blue-haired girls I've ever seen.

Why?

Because not only am I a crier, but becasue I've been there.

I've been there.

And so have so many others.

So, please, please give love to others. Give them support. Help someone. DO SOMETHING.

Me?

I'm writing a blog.