Printer-friendly version

Outer scars are ephemeral. They could not compare to the ones I carry inside of my soul. They are onions. Layers upon layers of cosmic decay that she allowed to happen to me. The mirror becomes a confirmation of my demons taking shape.  They swirl around in eyes that aren't my own, soul stealing vespers;whisps of unfulfilled razors skin howling gathering unfulfilled dust.  I pounded my bloody fists into the tiny shards of broken mirror seeking salvation from the reflection staring back at me that the monster I called Mother created.

Crimson rivers of pain ran out of me. Twenty seven years of bottles and drugs could not numb this curse those hands placed upon me. Her hateful words rang in my ears. Cacophonous howling barreled out of her lungs like cannons.  No amount of razors or blood or alcohol or drugs could ever erase them or her. No outward scars could ever soothe the pain and emptiness or void that she created in my soul.

No matter how many times he took out his rage on me, and beat me into oblivion, the fields were always greener where I went, and he could not touch me there. 

Metal and blood became my surrogate mother, soothing my innermost pain. It became a way for me to connect the insides with the outside.  Visual confirmation of my suffering. A way to cope with the anxiety and fear. A great escape. A way to disassociate, to come back, to hide from the world. 

When my jeans rubbed against the cuts, I felt the pain all over again, it was confirmation that I was alive, that I chose to be in pain, that I caused the pain, not you or you or anyone else. I was in control of how much or how little that there was.  It relaxed me.
 It was Jesus Christ himself. My church. My holy communion.  It became my sanctuary.  I could channel my hate, rage, hurt, despair, everything into that knife, exacto, or whatever other object I used to skillfully drag across my skin to create my masterpiece.

Whatever it was, it was mine. It served its purpose. It made me whole. Kept me sane, and alive, helped me cope with the world, when the world kept spitting me out, beating me up, telling me I would amount to nothing. It was my only friend in times of darkness, it became the only light at the end of the tunnel.

And sometimes I miss my dark friend, more than words can express. Thesemessed up feelings don't just go away. Sometimes I walk into an art supply store and look at the exacto knives and stare, and know that there are others who walk down the same dark path that I do.

I take each day as it comes. I stare at my skin and wonder if going through all of this without self injury is really worth it, because feelings and expression for me is so difficult sometimes, and I miss my only coping mechanism I utilized and relied upon for years.

Living with Aspegers makes that all the more difficult for me to readily express my feelings and emotions outwardly. Written medium is different, I can take the time to sort it all out and we aren't standing face to face.

I don't know if I won't ever cut again. I don't look at razors or exacto's as things to shave with or cut art projects with like most of society says I should, I see them as a way for me to cope with the tempest raging in my head, and the pain seeping deep inside my bones.

All I can see is the here and now. This moment. I've already been through the worst. The past is the past. I can't change it, and I don't want to live in it anymore, so I change the here and now. What I do in each moment. I recognize each feeling, journal the hard stuff.

I got outside help, and I'm not ashamed to admit that.

I choose to manifest in this incarnation of me as someone who faces her inner demons, can take the sunshine with the shit. I'm not afraid to look in the mirror because those demons now all have names and it isn't mine. I feel no matter what. I peel back the layers and even if it gets ugly, I can sit with that feeling.

My cutting was not weakness, not by any means, it made me stronger, and will always be a part of who I am. It helped me feel.
 Despite what professionals all say, it did.  I would have been dead had it not been for this, that I am certain. I defend and protect this aspect of myself, without apology, without regret.

My poetry and my art all center around these aspects of myself. Through it I seek answers and express my connectivity to this part of me. 

Today, I am becoming an empowered woman. Creative soul, and someone who is seeking peace with her horrid past and trying to pick up the pieces and assemble them into a better picture of a future me who knows healing and peace, someone who can sit still and love the skin she's in.