The relief

It’s there when you put the blade to your skin. As you drag it through the skin cells, and create a wound. As the blood spills. But then it’s gone. Within the blink of an eye, it’s gone. 

It’s there when you throw up your dinner. As you’re hurling in your bathroom. As tears gather in your eyes. But then it’s gone.You catch your breath, brush your teeth, and it’s gone. 

It’s there when you tell him to do whatever he pleases with you. As you take your clothes off, and lie down to be used. As you compromise yourself and allow someone to treat you as if you’re worthless, because that’s what you are. But then it’s gone. He gets his release and then he caresses your chin as if you’re valuable, like it was all a game. He kisses your forehead and tells you you’re beautiful, and it’s gone.

It’s there when he throws the punch. As you trace your fingers along your jaw, to your lips, and you lift the hand in front of you, and you see there’s blood on it. As you turn the other cheek and get hit again. As the dizziness embraces you and it’s hard to stand on your feet. But then it’s gone. He gasps and is by your side in a stride. He apologizes under his breath and begs for forgiveness, and it’s gone.

It’s there when you stub a cigarette on your hip. As you watch your bruises in the mirror. As your empty nail beds brush against your covers. But then it’s gone. It only lasts a moment, and then the moment’s gone.

Relief, sweet relief, it won’t really stay, until I’m dead. 

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I’ve got 3,5 outta 10 nails left on my feet.

I think something’s wrong with me. Actually I know something’s wrong with me, but I don’t know what. It hurts so bad. I am so stupid. Why do we keep doing these things over and over again? Why do we not remember the pain, and the shame this brings? Even the nail beds! For heavens sake!? I look like a fucking penguin when I walk. The throbbing in my toes will probably keep me up tonight, and the fucker inside reminds me that that is why I had to do it: so I wouldn’t sleep and so I’d walk around never forgetting the pain. You’re to. Never. Forget. The. Pain.

Fellow self-harmers, why do we do this to ourselves? Even when we know the relief won’t come, and even when we know that the abuser inside will never be satisfied. We say “I’m never doing that again”, but then we do. Why? Why am I so incredibly stuuuuuuupid.

 

For those of you who has left a comment: I love every comment I get. I read it and appreciate it and reread it. I will get back to you. But I’m trying to be in a right mind when I do, but I will answer it, that’s a promise you can count on. As long as I’m not hit by a meteor. In the meantime I am reading them and appreciating them, over and over. Cause they and you are valuable to me.

The answer to my pain

What does this mean? Can I never feel anything but pain? Why do I always end up back here? With the pain.

Oh, a rainbow! – Pain. Oh, a puppy! – Pain. Oh, sweet lord, kissing feels good! – Pain.

This can’t be happening. How am I supposed to believe life can be good, when pain keeps corrupting everything? I can’t find purpose and hope and future in this life that feels so hopeless. And when all things good lead back to misery, I can’t even hope for that hope, somewhere in the future. When does happy become happy again? And nervous nervous?

But I know the answer though, it’s always here, in capital letters: DIE.

DIE ALREADY.

Being walked all over by the people who’s supposed to help

Edit note: This is long, but please take the time. I wanted to call this post: Nurse from hell, but I realized I’m not that rude. I’m just very depressed.

Writing this, I found that there could be some misunderstandings as things work a little different over here than in America, and other places, so just to avoid misunderstandings, I’ll try to clarify … and you’ll learn about the medical system in Norway, hurrah! Okay, so in Norway we have Akutten and Legevakta which both translates to the ER, but they’re different. The Akutten is for those who come in an ambulance, and need immediate help, but the Legevakta (literally translate: on-call-doctor I think!)is for people who come on their own, that don’t need immediate-immediate help, but still can’t wait until the regular hours, like stitches, or if they suspect concussions, or if someone has a bad case of the flue, stuff like that. You get the drill.

I went to Legevakta yesterday. I was bleeding a lot and I needed some stitches. I left my phone at home, so I wasn’t able to call and make an appointment, or say that I was coming, but I’ve come on the door before, and it has always been okay. You go up to this reception thing and tell them what you need help with, and there’s usually no problem … Not today. 

I rang the bell and the woman who opened was grumpy, but I accepted that. It was 3 in the morning, and I was sad, exhausted, tired, and dizzy myself, so I wasn’t about to react to that, I had no energy for that. She asked me what I wanted, and I said I was going to Legevakta She asked me if I had called, and I said no … This nurse though, she didn’t have anything to do with Legevakta, she was on Akutten (I think, at least not Legevakta, they’re almost the same place though, you go in the same way), but still she was kind of hassling me about what I wanted, blah-blah-blah. I said no, I didn’t have my phone, and she was like, you can’t go in there then, you have to call, and she directed me to a phone that was in the middle of the hallway where everyone could listen 20 meters from Legevakta, and told me I had to call first. I was a little dumb-founded, usually you could go to the Legevakta-reception, but I did as she told me anyways. 

So I stood there getting connected to the district-Legevakta, instead of the local-Legevakta (which was 20 meters away for God’s sake, the doctor was even awake, and there was no line!), and the woman in the other end was clearly condescending. “You did it yourself?” “Why did you do it?” “How deep is it?” Questions that don’t need to be asked when I know I needed stitches. Couldn’t she just believe me? The doctor would ask these questions afterwards anyways, I didn’t need to be frowned upon, and treated like an itty-bitty-emo-kid that didn’t deserve human decency but the person answering the phone. But I didn’t react to that, I didn’t have the energy for it, I have experienced this so many times before, I wasn’t about to use my last ounce on energy getting pissed for being judged, again. 

So I stood there, leaning against a tall shelf, barely holding on to the phone, feeling my face starting to sweat, it was hard standing up, I was so tired, and dizzy. And this is where the trouble began. 
I hear someone barking at me. Yelling at me. Just this short phrase, but definitely terrible, all the same. Terrible, horrifying, startling! “Don’t you go stepping in it!” … I’m like, WTF, and I look over to the nurse, the grumpy one. I stand there open-mouthed, shocked. My face reads: What the fuck! But I don’t say a word. Why is this grown-up woman yelling at me for no reason, I think. But I don’t do anything more than to look puzzled and annoyed at her. I feel like I deserve being yelled at. I’m a worthless piece of shit after all. And then I register what she had said. Stepping in it? Stepping in what? I look down, and I see a little pool of blood on the floor next to my shoe. Shit. I still don’t say anything. I’m thinking I’ll clean it up when I’m off the phone, I’m thinking I won’t step in it (though how can you not step in blood that’s coming from your own foot? search me!), I’m thinking, hang in there, don’t you die today. 

I’m on hold on the phone. I’m standing perfectly still. And I know this, I know I don’t move an inch. I’m leaning on my hands, almost disappearing, and I stand so still. And then I hear: DON’T STEP IN IT!

I loose it. I loose it. Since when is it all-right to yell at other grown-up human being out of nothing? I didn’t move an inch! And when you see a person clearly unwell, standing in an emergency room needing help, bleeding all over the floor, is really your first reaction to YELL AT THEM?! Lo-behold I had stepped in it, I still don’t think it’s okay for her to yell at me. But what made me react with anger in stead of getting sadder and feeling shame, because I was a stupid idiot for bleeding on the floor, is the fact that I didn’t move an inch, and she still yelled at me, that I shouldn’t go stepping in it. The fuck? So I get filled with this terrible anger, I feel walked on, violated, disrespected. I was having a terrible night already, I needed help, and this is what I get when I ask for it. Did she think I tried to bleed on the floor? Did she think I did it on purpose? Is this really how a professional meets a patient?

“I didn’t fucking move!” I look at her incredulously. I feel myself ready to explode. I say out aloud “I can’t deal with this!” and then I take some steps away. I try to remove myself from the situation, because I get so overwhelmed with anger, and hurt, and pain. I really can’t take it. I can’t handle it. And what do you think she does? She grabs me as I’m taking those steps away. She grabs my arm, and yanks me back, yelling at me. “Don’t walk around here, like that!”, or something, I don’t know. And I don’t know up from down anymore. She touched me. She grabbed me. She yelled even more, when I clearly showed her I was not able to deal with it. She prevents me from leaving the situation, she prevents me from even taking a few steps away. I explode. 

“I don’t appreciate being talked to like that! I didn’t fucking move, and still you yell at me! You can talk to people with the same respect you would want others to talk to you! I’m not your child, and you have no right to yell at me like that! I deserve to be treated with respect!” I say, or yell is more like it, something like that. And all the while I’m talking to her, she’s rolling her eyes. I guess rolling your eyes at a patient is the prime example of invalidating someone else’s feelings, and isn’t that what she’s supposedly paid for … I don’t think so.

Afterwards (after I’ve cleaned up after myself, and started to cry hysterically, because I’m not good with handling emotions, particularly not when it’s already waaaaaay toooo muuuuch!), I talk with the doctor, who was free all along, and he’s great, and tells me I deserve help as good as any gal, and that it was sad that that was the way I had to be met. But it’s too late you know. You add the bad situation to the bill, and forget about the good. It’s sadly the way it works when you have low self-esteem. The consequences the actions of this nurse had on me is enormous. And the worst thing about it is … she won’t even know, and she doesn’t even understand what she did. I leave the place, yeah, stitched up, pulled together. But this time asking for help only put another weight on my shoulders. Why does the world have to be like this. What do I do to change this? I don’t want anyone else to be met like this. 

What do you think? Am I overreacting? Was this okay? Who was in the wrong?

Sorry, this was a really long blurb. I just .. had to get it out. It’s 2 am, and I feel terrible, wanting to die. I have an appointment in the morning, but this darkness is just so all-consuming. How do we hang in here. 

Lots of hugs from me to you. I’m happy there are good people in the world as well. 

 

You made it through the year

Tomorrow it’s my birthday. I’m anxious. But at least I know there won’t be any tears this year! For the first time in history! (Or, maybe there will be tears, but since I haven’t been able to shedding them lately, I don’t think anything will change tomorrow … or, maybe it will, who knows, it’s become a tradition by now to cry on my b-day after all! Buhu, life sucks!)

I do have plans, but I’m super worried that they won’t turn out good, and that I’ll be reminded that I should die by the end of the day. It’s strange with becoming a year older, you hear that voice in your head, the one that is oddly familiar with the boy next door who used to tell you how much you sucked. I mean, it’s often there, but on a day like that, it’s there more, because you shouldn’t be allowed to feel the happiness that is often associated with those days. You shouldn’t even’ve become a year older. You should’ve died already. That voice, however familiar to the boy next door and to the teachers in elementary and your long time friend who should’ve known better, most of all it’s familiar to your own. Because that is what it does to you: it manipulates you to start tormenting yourself, because all they say is true, so you’ll tell the truth too, right? It’s that, or knowing that they are wrong, and feeling that they are wrong, and seeing that no one does anything about it. Somewhere along you learned that it was easier thinking you deserved it. So all these years later, when turning a year older, making it through all those 365 days, you hear that voice again, shouting in your head, that you’re not worth it. But as I said, I do have plans, and I’m gonna meet some great friends, and maybe some hugs and being surrounded by love (oh, cheesy!) will make that stupid voice fade.

Now I’m gonna go to bed, showered and smooth, and read some chapters in Divergent, before I fall asleep into the clean sheets I just put on. I’m gonna try not to worry about tomorrow, the first thing I can do to not let it get bad is to be rested.

PS: Wow, reading this my life sounds so privileged and good. Well sometimes the pain doesn’t shine through, and I should probably be happy with being able to put up a sweet exterior. The truth is I’ll be happy (read: ok) if I get through tomorrow without any new scars and a couple of hugs.

For some further reference, check out my birthday last year: What defines your happiness?

Why do I keep pushing, when no matter what I do, I end up feeling the pain?

I am proud of myself. Hallo! am proud of myself. When did that ever happen before?
And I am disappointed. But I know I shouldn’t be disappointed, because I did as well as I could, and I tried, and I did so much more than I had expected from myself, and not doing it 100% is allowed, and it’s still new to pay attention to myself and my needs so I understand that I didn’t manage to do it 100% perfect.

Today I went out and spent time with some friends. Not close friends, just one of them were. We were 6. I think it’s almost a year since the last time I was surrounded by so many people that wasn’t my family, or medical people, at once. I was nervous, I was filled with anxiety, I felt worthless, but I did it! I fucking did it, man! Me! I. And I know I left too late, that I spent too long there for my own good. That I should’ve cut it shorter, but it was so hard. Because I had an ok time, so maybe I could just stay a little longer. Because the others didn’t go home so early, so maybe I could just stay a little longer. Because what was I supposed to say when I left early, and the others stayed (?), so maybe I could just stay a little longer. Because it was nice being out of the house for once, and it was ok to meet my friends, and to listen to them talk and be excited about a life that didn’t involve pain, so maybe I could just stay a little longer. But I shouldn’t have, I should’ve known better, and left early. But I didn’t know better, and there is no point in beating myself up about that, because I went out. I went out of the house and met people, and that is BIG. That is something that is so hard to do. So so what if I didn’t leave when I should’ve, I did something great still, and you can’t expect things to be perfect, and you can’t expect yourself to know better all the time. I thought it would be ok to stay longer, but I was wrong, and I am allowed to be wrong without having to die for it.

So yeah … I think I’m proud. I don’t feel proud, but I think proud. What I feel though, is that I should die. I should die tonight. I should end it all. Life is too painful. Life is terrible. And this is how I know I stayed too long. The repercussions of wearing yourself down when you’re depressed, and when you get overstimulated by the world because of sensory problems and stuff  … fuck, it sucks. I don’t wanna wanna die. I don’t wanna feel shitty. I am happy (not like in a feeling kinda way, but a reasonable kinda way) that I went, and that I pushed myself to be social, but I’m just so sad that this is how my life is. Instead of going home from a nice evening with nice people and feeling like a hundred bucks going to bed and falling asleep with a smile on my mouth, I want to die. And that is not how it’s supposed to be. And I’m so sad, so disappointed, that this is how my life is. I don’t want this. I’m so tired. I’m so awfully fed up with being sick.

But! I am proud. (I reaaaaaally don’t feel proud, but I should be, because I pushed myself to do something that was extremely hard for me to do, and I went through with it, doesn’t that give me reason to be proud?) What do you say? Do you have any well-meaning words that could cheer a terribly worn down person up?

Self-harm on a whole new level!

I’m a little bit embarrassed to admit this, because I think it’s terrible, but here goes …

My self-harm has come to a new level. It’s not clean cuts, or a bunch of clean cuts. It’s not stitches, or a bunch of stitches. It’s nothing that will make me have to go to the doctor, where I’ll get those condescending looks, and where I’ll be met with overbearing nurses who don’t want to listen when I try to tell them what kind of thread they need to use on my skin. I won’t have to take the risk of meeting a doctor who’ll make me justify being sick, or who’ll treat me badly because surely I must like pain. This won’t leave traces on my skin which’ll haunt me forever, only I can know the harm it has done to me, unless I’m very unfortunate and it turns out the wrong way. This won’t be visible on me, and I will never spend time trying to hide it, because it’s hidden most of the time anyways. I’ll never be left disappointed with the world because of this. It’ll never give me experiences of inferiority (visiting the doctor for self-harm often does). But it hurts.

I’m inclined to say that it hurts worse than any cut ever has, but I’m not sure if I’m saying that because it’s true or because in this moment it’s pulsating with pain. It hurts when I do it, and during the night, to the point it wakes me up sometimes, and then for days after. It hurts so much it makes me walk funny, and sometimes it’s so bad I look totally ridiculous when walking. It hurts in a very demanding way, it’s insisting to be felt, to be thought of, to be endured. It makes me feel like an idiot! Because who would do this to themselves? Who?! And why would someone do this to themselves? And three days after when it still hurts I think to myself that I shouldn’t have done it, but then I remember that I should, I deserve it. There’s no escaping it, because it’s already done and only time will make it right again. But I deserve that. How can I think that? And it makes me feel like an idiot even more because rationally I know that there are risks with doing this, like an infection (which could make me have to visit the doctor), or it never growing back. But I guess all self-harm in one way is idiotic. I don’t wanna be an idiot though, but I don’t know how to not hurt myself. I’m obviously not well.

I’ve been pulling my nails out.

 

Edit: I’m starting to wonder if I’m more messed up than I thought.