I'm Pouring My Heart Out today with Shell over at Things I Can't Say.
Most of you know my dad is gay and came out of the closet when I was 15 years old. If you didn't, please peruse some background here, here and here. I believe his revelation will always impact me in one way or another, and over the years how it has affected me has ebbed and flowed. The major blow was the day he told us his secret and the few weeks/months afterwards. Next came college, where I lived on my own for the first time and really began to process the issues that resulted from his revelation. Below is a very graphic journal entry written from that time period; a time when I had so many powerful emotions swirling around inside that I didn't know what to do with them all. I took my anger, depression, anxiety, and confusion out on myself. If you are not familiar with the concept of self-harm or self-injury, you can read more here.
The most important thing to realize is that self-mutilation is not about suicide, and I have not harmed myself in over 10 years. If this is too disturbing, please do not read it. And as always, remember that you don't have to like me or agree with me, but you do have to respect me. This is my space. My blog is growing, changing, and soon you shall see less randomness and more reality. This is life, people. We all have skeletons in the closet whether we admit it or not. I am admitting it here.
Moving on. Below begins the actual journal entry from Fall, 1996 (I was 20 years old):
The brand new silver blade bit into the white, trembling skin of my left wrist.
I crouched on the green bath mat just outside the shower stall, trying to make myself small.
My hair was freshly washed, still wet and clinging to my cheeks and the back of my neck. A whiff of Herbal Essence shampoo. It was late on a weeknight, I'd planned it out somewhat.
My heart thundered in my chest and I felt the searing, slicing and it felt good. So I did it again. And again. With immense relief and disbelief at the same time.
Blood, red and thick, flooded to the surface and ran down the side of my arm, dripping.
Drip. Drop. Drip.
Plit. Plat. Plit.
Watching. Like slow motion. Numbness. A separation. Pieces of myself. Breaking off.
Red, paint-like splotches on the grey tiled floor of the shower. My nose was running and tears blurred my vision. I wasn't crying for the pain on my arm, but for the pain in my heart, my soul. Each time the razor sliced into my flesh I felt relief, release, rebirth, a newness. I felt purged and holy and clean. Bloodletting.
The blood flowed freely as I stayed quiet, hovering. I heard nothing save the sound of my own breath and the throbbing beat of blood pumping in my ears.
Pain---what is it, after all? This was a self-imposed pain, so it didn't count. There was a gauzy bandage wrapped around the site of my pain for a while, and now there are long sleeves conveniently covering my pain. But still, that's just the outside pain. There are two kinds, you know. The other is internal, deep inside my heart. It never goes away. I tried to make the inside pain go away by creating a pain on the outside. But that pain proved to be only a temporary distraction.
I'm tired of pain. I think a lot of people don't understand where my pain is coming from. Maybe I don't really understand, either.
It's hard to write about pain. I know it by heart, but I've always had trouble putting it into words, vocalizing it. Yet I don't mind putting words on paper. It's easier than talking about the pain, that's for sure.
Pain is a looming, growling monster that gallops after me. He chases me until I am too tired to run anymore. I trip and fall down and he jumps upon me, howling and writhing and fierce and mad. He won't let me get up and he chokes me, latches onto me. He follows me everywhere, taunting me in foreign tongues. I try not to listen.
I know his words are bad.
(end of journal entry)
And here is a Sylvia Plath poem that speaks to me in many ways:
"Cut"
What a thrill ----
My thumb instead of an onion.
The top quite gone
Except for a sort of hinge
Of skin,
A flap like a hat,
Dead white.
Then that red plush.
Little pilgrim,
The Indian's axed your scalp.
Your turkey wattle
Carpet rolls
Straight from the heart.
I step on it,
Clutching my bottle
Of pink fizz. A celebration, this is.
Out of a gap
A million soldiers run,
Redcoats, every one.
Whose side are they on?
O my
Homunculus, I am ill.
I have taken a pill to kill
The thin
Papery feeling.
Saboteur,
Kamikaze man ----
The stain on your
Gauze Ku Klux Klan
Babushka
Darkens and tarnishes and when
The balled
Pulp of your heart
Confronts its small
Mill of silence
How you jump ----
Trepanned veteran,
Dirty girl,
Thumb stump.
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