started cutting because my wife was ignoring me
i feel like a bitch
could say more but my meds make me so tired and delirious
started cutting because my wife was ignoring me
i feel like a bitch
could say more but my meds make me so tired and delirious
My whole left side stings. It’s keeping me from floating off and away. Keeping me real.
I cut my thigh. My arm. Up and down. I didn’t count them. I just… Kept going until the song Anakin’s Betrayal ended. Now I’m lying in bed listening to all of my music in the dark. Shaking. Shaking as I type on my phone. Waiting for Aunna to get home. I look like a real mess.
I’m trying to cry but instead I bleed. Bleeding my sorrow out I guess. Clense me of pain and make me real.
Make me real
Self Harm – “Nonsuicidal self–injury, often simply called self–injury, is the act of deliberately harming the surface of your own body, such as cutting or burning yourself. It’s typically not meant as a suicide attempt. Rather, this type of self–injury is an unhealthy way to cope with emotional pain, intense anger and frustration.”
It’s more than that. Self harm is any act that hurts you. Physically. Emotionally. Relationship wise.
Sex can be self harm.
I’m gay but not one of those “gold star lesbians” (oh gods I hate that term) but I would have sex with men for money. I’m just using my body as a tool. Tonight I used it as a tool to get back my Star Wars dvds from a “friend”.
Simply asking him to hang out didn’t work so I told him I was horny (which I wasn’t) and faked orgasming with him. But hey I got my dvds back.
I hate myself
Tonight I picked on Aunna, my wife, trying to get her to play. I hurt her. I pinched and pulled and scratched until she hit me. And hit me. Hit me until I laughed and laughed.
Finally I was punished.
I still want to hurt myself. I still want to die. I would love to not wake up.
I would love to sneak off, find the key to the medicine cabnit and down a whole lot of pills but I can’t because everyone is sick of my shit. I need to pretend to be okay.
I’m not okay. Not at all.
“I am clearly broken and no one knows what to do
Pieces of the puzzle don’t fit, so I pound them into you” -Get Up!, Korn
These cutting diaries are getting too close together. But I need to do this so I see it documented so when I say I’ve gone so many months without harming I could have an exact date.
I hurt myself today over the dumbest thing. I didn’t hurt myself much. Just four little cuts above my knee on my right leg.
But Aunna had a nightmare. In her nightmare we found out that I would never get better so they offered me assisted suicide. And I took it. She said she held me the whole time as I died. And then she walked through our house (but wasn’t our current home) crying, with all the memories of me through out the house. She woke up crying and I tried comforting but all I could say was sorry. That some how it was my fault she had this dream. Which it is.
I’m the one who’s tried killing myself several times. The one who hurts myself constantly. If I was offered to die, I would take it.
It would break Aunna’s heart, but I would still do it.
I’m a selfish person. I see clearly what my sickness does to people and I don’t get better. I don’t try hard enough to get better.
I want to die.
Today I went to my first ACA (Adult Children of Alcoholics) meeting. It’s not just for children of alcoholics, but children of dysfunctional families. Mine’s normal dysfunctional. Divorced. Remarried. Two half brothers. I’m the oldest out of four. But I belonged at the meeting, regardless.
My dysfunction is searching for love from my mom. Both moms. Birth and step. And I’m not getting what I need so I turn to addictive behaviors such as sex, eating, smoking, and cutting.
I shared my short story of how I look for that love in other people, in abusive people. That despite I get it from my wife it’s just not enough. I want it from my mothers. From the one who gave birth to me. From the woman who married my father. Who CHOSE ME. Didn’t regret me. Who chose me until I wasn’t enough and she had to have her own. She says she loves us all equally but I felt replaced.
This group knows me and calls me Cassandra. A name I hate and don’t use. A name my mother gave me. But I am here to heal the little girl, Cassandra. Where the BPD started. It was Cassandra who was emotionally abandoned. It was Cassandra who was raped at 6 by her friend’s cousin. It was Cassandra whom parents were divorced.
I’m doing this for her so Icarus, the genderless being that I am, can thrive.
Group was not what I was expecting. I was shaking the whole time with fear, feeling like the fraud police were going to get me. Tell me that I didn’t belong there that I wasn’t “bad enough.” (But I have the scars and cuts and I’m a repeat rape victim with my list of mental illnesses, believe me, I need this)
But everyone there who shared shared something that I have been through, that I have thought, that I had felt. That I was currently feeling. One person stole the words right out of my mouth “I have to be the most insane one to justify all of this.”
Another person spoke about how he painted the ugly and deformed because that was where he found his Higher Power.
People spoke of looking for love from parents who weren’t giving it. About feeling like a freak.
We talked about how it was them who weren’t accepting OUR gift of OUR love. It was them, not us who were wrong. But we still had to be accountable for our feelings and actions. We are valid, but that doesn’t always make us right.
We talked about how we are responsible of our response to our traumas.
But what about PTSD???? Are we responsible on if we get PTSD then?
All I know is that I did not ask to have PTSD. I did not asked to be raped. My behaviors and facts made up of what others created for me may have lead me to those who abused me, but I did not ask for it. I did not know how to ask for help out of it. I did not know how to avoid it. How can I be responsible for that? How can I be responsible for something no one taught me???
It’s like fool me once shame on you, fool me twice or more times shame on me. Rape me once, shame on you. Rape me again…and again…and again… shame on me?
Something isn’t right there but that’s how my trauma/marriage therapist describes it.
Shame on me for getting raped by Damien. Especially since he did it many times, right? That’s my fault? I don’t get it.
My trauma/marriage therapist is afraid (if I am truly Borderline as she says) that I’ll split on her. That I’ll tell my general therapist that I don’t like her. Because that’s what borderlines do. We try to get people on our side once we don’t like a person.
How dare she call me out like that.
But also, why is that a bad thing? I’m hurt. I’m offended. Why is it bad to seek comfort from someone that agrees “yes what she said was wrong and unfair to you.”
I am fragile. Handle me with “kid gloves” damn it. I’m still a kid. I haven’t grown up from 6. I haven’t grown up from 15. Too many ages in my head to act 26.
Cassandra was raped at 6 years old. I didn’t even realize it until I was much older but the more I dig up the memory the more techno color it appears.
Cassandra wasn’t raped at 15. She was dead before that.
But Rin? Rin was molested a handful of times. Then she was raped. Many times. By the same abusive boyfriend. Molested again by male friends she mistakenly got close to.
Then Rin was raped by a female friend she got too close to. We don’t like talking about that.
That was when Rin died and I was born.
They say it takes seven years to have completely new cells. I was born with seven years to get my own body again. One she hadn’t touched. Three down, four to go.
But I, Icarus, refuse to be touched again in ways I don’t want to.
I’ve already fucked that up, whoring myself out to a male friend to hurt myself. It isn’t rape. But it’s self harm.
It’s been a week almost, hasn’t it? Can I make it 7 years. Will I make it to 33? Will I even make it to 30?
Fuck, will I make it to 27? To 2017. Will I make it to tomorrow?
My wife left her keys here today, by accident. I have access to my medications. I could over dose right now if I wanted to or not. I don’t know if I want to. I know I want to cut again. Oh I really want to cut again. But I also want to take a handful of Ambien and sleep. Sleep until I die.
I don’t like groups. Though I’m going to keep going. It opens wounds. Group doesn’t close them. Maybe it does and I’m not letting it?
This is on me to make it work.
But do I want it to work?
Am I just that so in love with my pain that I am incurable?
Why do they bring God and a Higher Power into everything. I have a complicated relationship with God. They began and end with the Serenity prayer.
“God, grant me the serenity
To accept the things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things that I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.”
How is serenity going to help me?
How can I change anything?
Courage? I have none.
Wisdom??? I have zero.
I want to change everything, I do not fucking care if there are things I can’t change. Fuck me.
I’m feeling fatter than normal and since I binge and binge and then eat my feelings and eat when bored and ache too much to excersize and terrified of throwing up… I started cutting on my stomach.
My stomach is hard to cut. It’s too flubbery. No satisfaction from cutting there just frustration. So I cut my thigh twice after my several attempts on my stomach and I felt better.
It’s still bleeding but I literally put down my box cutter blade and picked up my phone and started typing.
I want to just go to town on my arms.
I have this fucked up idea that I’m only certifiably mentally ill if I have various degrees of self harming wounds healing on my body.
Being on 6 psychiatric medications and seeing 2 to 3 therapists and 1 psychiatrist and having 5 hospital stays under my belt don’t make me sick.
It’s the cuts that matter. It’s the fingers sticky with blood and the itchy skin and the texture of lines…
Talking about it makes me want to cut
But I should attempt sleep since I have my first Adult Children meeting tomorrow.
Part of me wants to be very dramatic and show up with fresh self harm marks on my arms. Take off my jacket and bam. Look how not okay I am.
Is am not okay.
I’m also going to use this place to document when I self harm. So triggering matterial bellow.
It’s a beautiful, snowing, and cold night. I type this on my phone as I smoke my first cigarette in a few weeks.
I’m starting to feel manic. Everything is too much. I’m bundled up outside beside my wife. I’m dressed in my Harley Quinn full body union suit. (classic Harley) with my thick and heavy Jedi robe around me.
I can feel the blood sticking to my left leg of my jammies.
Only five minutes ago I finished carving the word ‘Monster’ into my thigh. It’s messy, hard to read. The ‘M’ clear and the rest mearly scratches. It won’t scar. Only half the ‘W’ did when I wrote Whore onto the same thigh years prior.
I won’t tell my wife but she’ll find out soon enough on her own. By reading this or when we snuggle in bed soon enough. Sorry Aunna. I love you.
I had a vision…
Flowers in my hair as I laid in a blue watered lake. My last goodbyes fresh on my tongue, closed off to pleadings, so sure of what I wanted. The need, the pull… I am completely aware of how dramatic I am, but my lungs itched to be on fire. I needed to be incased in warmth. Floating. As much as I could of course.
Last breath so sweet. Surrendering
Eyes closed to blue. Drowning
Romantic. Dramatic. Fanatic.
But guys… Just playing with some underwater selfies while I take a warm bath on this snowy autumn night.
Told you I was dramatic.
“In my mind
In a future five years from now
I’m one hundred and twenty pounds
And I never get hung over
Because I will be the picture of discipline
Never minding what state I’m in
And I will be someone I admire
And it’s funny how I imagined
That I would be that person now
But it does not seem to have happened
Maybe I’ve just forgotten how to see
That I am not exactly the person that I thought I’d be” -In My Mind, Amanda Palmer
2 things…. oops I mean 3
I bought the book my trauma/marriage therapist suggested, “Stop Walking on Eggshells: taking your life back when someone you care about has borderline personality disorder.” and I hate it already.
The point of the book is for someone like my wife, Aunna, to help her better understand me, the Borderline Monster that I am. Which, 30 pages in… Aunna already does the things they suggest. She’s gentle with me. She and I actually have a very good understanding between us and my rages of irritability and instability. I think I wasted my money. But my therapist wants us to read it. So I will read it. The whole thing. Tear it apart in its offensive descriptions of those with Borderline Personality Disorder. Also to prove to my therapist that I do indeed have Borderline Personality Disorder. You dare doubt me: Anakin Fucking Skywalker?????
Nothing has ever described me so well so much. The way I use sex, and self-harm, and spending… the “cheating” with our open relationship. The fact that I fucked a cis guy just to get my fucking DVDs back (Star Wars dvds, mind you, very important) even though I self identify as a lesbian. (I am not a Gold Star Lesbian, sadly. Had that stupid title ripped away from me when Damien raped me. Thanks.) I even fucked my best friend who I dated for half a year in an attempt at a poly relationship. It was…like fucking my best friend. But he’s a guy, not cis, thank fucking god because I can’t stand cis-guys, but as a lesbian I felt like I was disrespecting his gender by sleeping with him. But we’re good. I hope so at least. He tells me we are good. I love him so much. I’m glad we’re best friends.
What brought upon my BPD? My PTSD? My Borderline Personality Disorder it’s been agreed that it was the emotional abandonment from my mother, the divorce, the feelings of that my parents were leaving my brother and I because we weren’t good enough for them to stay together. Or was it the rape/molestation (fuzzy memories) that happened to me when I was 6 by my friend’s cousin? (I think they were female?) Did that give me Borderline Personality Disorder? I know I have a natural disposition to being sensitive. I know bipolar is hereditary. I know that my PTSD didn’t happen until Damien raped me. Repeatedly. Abused me, beat me, yelled at me, threatened me constantly. My therapist that I miss, Laura, said that I had Stockholm Syndrome. My new therapist, Valerie, doubts I had it. I kinda really hate her the more I think about it.
Valerie thinks that I let Damien rape me. The first time wasn’t my fault. (I mean I was six years old) but that at 15 I was at fault because I chose to be with Damien? What the fuck is with her victim blaming??? She also thinks the third person who raped me is my fault again because I repeated my behaviors of being a target for abusive people.
I’m sorry guys, who ever is still reading this. I still want to use this blog to discus magic, but it’s hard or me to do spells and read tarot when I’m suffering from my disorders. And suffering from a shit therapist.
The second thing…
I think I’m body dysmorphic… or something. It’s all part of the BPD really. But the thing I mentioned previously in my blog post before this. My problem with my weight. And the scary thing that everything around me is suddenly about anorexia. I re-read Loud in the House of My Self by Stacy Pershall, which I forgot that she talks about anorexia and bulimia in it quite a bit. But then my favorite Youtuber, Black Friday, talked about it in a recent video. I made a new friend who has an eating disorder.
I’m scared I’m developing one.
Or is it just the BPD fucking with my brain?
I drank my raspberry mint diet tea for dinner.
Then I binged on Mac and Cheese.
I feel bloated and sick and I want to puke, but I don’t know if I’ll actually do it. But I want to cut. I probably will cut. I have a plan. I’m going to cut ‘Monster’ into my thigh or my arm. I bought new blades today because my old ones are dull.
I bought a book on BPD and blades to cut. What a joke. What a walking stereotype I am.
I forgot to get the cute band-aids I promised my best friend I would get.
I think tomorrow I will properly starve myself, just to see if I can do it. I’m determined. I’m determined to destroy myself. I feel miserable and I want it to be clear.
I want my new therapist to see that I do have BPD.
I want my label acknowledged. I want to be fucking validated!!!
I haven’t drawn in days. I’ve felt too empty to draw. But I’ve been reading, so that’s okay, right? I finished Stranger in a Strange Land by Robert A. Heinlein (loved it) and Loud in the House of Myself by Stacy Parshall. I’m starting American Gods by Neil Gaiman and The Art of Asking by Amanda Palmer (and now Stop Walking on Eggshells, which I’m ready to burn and light a cigarette from the flames.)
Fuck I want a cigarette really bad. I’m trying to be good and stay quit. I know they slowly kill me but I like it? I imagine myself wasting away. But then I remember that my grandpa had lung cancer, he’s in remission with one and a half lungs.
My parents would kill me if I got lung cancer, and that scares me away from smoking more than anything, actually. But the temptation is there. Just one. I have a pack. One won’t kill me. I could watch the snow… bundled up in my Jedi robes with my zune in my pocket, blasting Strung Out In Heaven by Amanda Palmer. That sounds like heaven. I think I’ll do that. But after cutting. Cleaning my cuts and putting Star Wars band-aids on. Then curl up with American Gods or Art of Asking and call it a night.