This Year's Model of Humanity

March 1st is Self-Injury Awareness Day. As I did last year, I'll start by mentioning that if you read this journal, you know someone who has self-injured.

The last time that I had to explain some scars to someone, he actually explained it for me -- I was trying to find the right words and he said, without prompting," You had a bad day?" And I said, "A really bad day." He wasn't pitying me, he wasn't being hurtful -- he was concerned that I had very obvious cuts and wanted to know what was what, in a very matter-of-fact way.

I have self-inflicted wounds and they've left scars. Tiny white lines on my thighs and I'm probably the only person who could pick them out. Light brown lines on my left arm from my last very bad day (which was months ago, maybe six) that mostly just look like slight indents, like I leaned up against something long enough to leave small marks.

They're part of who I am (and that's a good thing). There was a time in my life when I really did hate myself, when I couldn't understand why anyone might like me (and, by extension, anything that I might create), a time when I felt numb and lost and the only way I even knew I was still alive was to feel pain (here it may be obvious why I identify with S6 Buffy so much -- "this isn't real, but I just wanna feel").

I'm a lot healthier than I used to be (and I'm continuing to work on becoming healthier still) and not nearly as... fragile (this may be the wrong word, as I never did fully break, at least not to the point where I was actually irrecoverable). But it's good for me to remember where I've been, because everything used to feel grey and dull and now life is infused with more colors than I can name. The contrast makes them all the brighter.

In my particular case, I do believe that pain brought some measure of wisdom. And so I can't condemn or look down on the girl I was, just... finally, finally I can love her. And that's a very good thing.

I'm a fairly good-natured sort. Tolerant of other people, possibly because I hope that that'll encourage them to be tolerant of me.

There's a lot about me that quite a few of the people in the world dislike. Things that I like that make other people go, "That's just sick.". Things about me that do the same.

A while ago, I posted a disclaimer on my journal - these are the things I talk about, these are the things I like. This is who I am.

But life doesn't come with a disclaimer. Every time that I wander outside my safe zone, I always feel like I end up getting burned. I always end up feeling like who I am isn't the sort that's welcomed. I write het and slash. I write FPS and RPS. I like men and women. I like angst and humor. I constantly feel neither one nor the other. Always hovering in the in-between.

On my bio page, I call myself a Work in Progress. I'm only twenty years old (twenty-one on November twenty-sixth). That's still just a kid. I don't know who I am and I don't know who I'll end up being or if I'll ever 'end up' anything. Life is change. Nothing stays the same for long.

Still, again.
( This is who I am )

I've noticed the 'years' meme. My memory is so shaky that I don't think it would be a good idea for me to try that. Still, it makes me think.

At 16, I was so miserable. One day, when I was home alone, I spontaneous broke out into song. I don't remember any of the lyrics, since I made them up on the spot but the title was The Hell that is Sixteen. It had a chorus and three verses and it felt very good to let out my feelings. But yes, I totally was a musical fan (still am) and I definitely believe that was a factor in my random song inventions.

I have a lot of self-destructive behavior in my past. I nearly flunked out of high school three times. I did some shop-lifting. I can identify with Annoying!Dawn, because I did that stuff. Because I felt so alone and lost and unloved. I was good at hiding it. I was good at lying. "Oh, I did my homework, I just forgot it." Lots of times they let me turn my work in late without a penalty because I sounded so sincere. I pulled that kind of trick both times I was caught shop-lifting: "Oh, this is the first time that I've ever done this. I'll never do it again. I promise." And both times I got let off without even so much as a fine or community service. The second time, I did get it on record that I'd shop-lifted, but no actual consequences. I haven't done it for years, though I didn't stop because I was caught. I'd discovered cutting, and that was better than shop-lifting because it was punishment and thrill at the same time.

Once I'd cut, shop-lifting lost its appeal. It was never about the things.

Note: I'm not depressed at the moment. Nevertheless, I felt like talking about how it feels.
( Depression. It is about me. )

I'm not good at sharing. The emotional shit that I mention in here? It's like, I don't know, tip of the iceberg stuff.

Right now, I'm not in pain, which is probably why I'm letting myself talk. Even now, with this little information, there's a 50/50 chance that I'll delete this post before I send it.

But back when I was cutting. Well, cutting regularly, because I have actually done a touch somewhat recently. Back when I was cutting regularly, I mentioned it maybe once in every twenty times. Something like that. I don't really remember. Bad memory.

When I hurt, I clam up. The bigger the hurt is, the less I'll talk about it. When I'm pain-free, I'm a regular chatterbox.

Every single post of mine that deals with pain was agonized over and nearly deleted several times.

FYI, you know.

And I am more open here than anywhere else in my life.

I cut. Just a little. Along the line of my vein on my left wrist. It could be a cat scratch, it's so small.

Cats never scratch me.

I wish I could get to sleep.

Right. I fucking cut my skin because I don't care.

Fuck you, mom.

My mom noticed the cuts.

( Wasn't expecting that. )