Afraid to Open Up to Those Close to Me

This post will be a free-flow way for me to disseminate my thoughts, as I have little idea what the end conclusion will be.

Since writing my last post There Is More To My Story, I have been thinking about my relationships with the people close to me, specifically, what I choose to reveal to them. I was also chatting with another blogger, Fictionatrix, in response to her post Late Night Thoughts – Who Am I? Some of her words struck a chord with what was going through my mind.

As mentioned in my last post, I just got a new set of tattoos. They are on my wrists, so they are quite visible, and I not one with a lot of tattoos. I’ve got a large one on my back, that’s it, but people don’t tend to see it. Hardly anyone in my support network have tattoos, and I know that they will ask me what my tattoo means. The tattoos aren’t “pretty” or superficial, and those close to me will know that there is some significance to me. I tend not to do things lightly. I don’t want to lie or give a half-truth in reply. I care and respect them and it would make me feel incongruent. I am feeling fear and shame right now.

There is a certain freedom with writing a personal blog. I can write what ever I want, be raw, be imperfect, and without the risk of worried and concerned looks from the ones that I love. Only very close friends know of my blog, sometimes even read it. My family knows that I blog (if they even know what that is) but they don’t know the site address. But even with my friends that read my blog, I only sometimes tell them the full depth of my thoughts. Continue reading

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There Is More To My Story

Arm muscles tense, anticipating.

I look to the ceiling, focusing on the hanging light.

A brief distraction; the needle drags across my skin.

Fuck. My courage falters.

I couldn’t do this to myself.

ying yang semicolons

I got a tattoo today. Physically it is two separate tattoos on separate parts of the body, but I say that it is one; connected. It’s a strange feeling, being ambivalent about something that is permanent. It is still fresh, colour jarringly bright, not yet aged and faded. I don’t yet love it: I don’t know if I ever will. It’s not really aesthetically nice. A lesson on acceptance of permanent imperfection?

One on the inside of each wrist, a marker to remind me that when life is totally fucked up, there will be more. Just, more. Not a qualitative “more”, I don’t know if it will be better or worse. The important thing is that I don’t end my story.

On some  of the occasions that I have thought about harming myself or ideated on suicide, my mind has gravitated to my wrists. I would forlornly look at my wrists, images flashing through my mind. I would cover my wrist with my hand, close my eyes, willing myself to stop thinking. From now on, when I look at my wrists, if I be forlorn and desperate, I will be reminded that there is more to my story, more untold.

The semicolon, a marker at a seemingly end of a sentence, but indicates that there is more to come. Not only something more, but something that is connected to what has just been. I’ve liked punctuation for a long time. Punctuation herds words into ideas. It tells us when to breathe. My semicolons will remind me that there is more to my story; to breathe.

Tattooing, in a way, is a form of self-harm. A sharpness, running across the skin, drawing blood. Today’s act was a defiance to any future self-harm that I may do. And fuck, it hurt. I don’t think I could ever cut my skin with my own hand. If ever I wanted to self harm, my semicolons will remind me that there is more to my story, and the pain that I persevered.

 

Addiction Ambivalence

Trigger Warning: If addiction or self harm are a trigger for you, caution with this post. If you are feeling distressed, please see my “getting help now” page. This post is not all gloom; there is some hope. 


I sit here, staring at my still fingers on the keyboard. I remember the freedom and the energy of last night. I am aware of the lethargy of now. The ease of social conversation with strangers versus withdrawal and reclusion. My addictive thinkings are rocks swirling, bruising, pulling, whispering promises.


I’ve been sober from weed for 11 months now. But last night I had 2 lines of coke and now my mind is comparing how I felt when I was high to how I feel now in my state of depression. Sure, the 2 drugs are very different, but the numbness from the negative thinking was the same, and so, so tempting. It was a false and hallow feeling, yet I was free of self-doubt, if only for a short time. I need to remember the shit that I went through for 9 months to hold the temptation at bay.

Weed was a social drug for years; only done with friends and maybe once a week, or, once a fortnight. That changed though during a darker period of my current depressive episode. I was living alone and only working casually. I smoked nearly everyday, mostly by myself, to numb the painful thoughts I was drowning in. I rationalised that because I didn’t smoke the night before I had to work (so my performance wasn’t affected), that I was in control and it wasn’t an addiction. I was just making my life more enjoyable … but I was dragging myself deeper into the quicksand.  Continue reading