Monday May 25, 2009
I don’t know why but it still hurts me when I think about thor. I don’t know why I was so affected by him. But I still get pangs in my chest, and urges to stab myself in the chest. Literally. Im not fucking around when I say that, I have actual, honest to God urges to take an exacto knife and stab myself in the chest. And when I think about thor, it just makes me wanna do it even more. On one hand I am ashamed of my scars, ashamed that I am the way I am, but on the other hand I yearn for it. I want to feel that blade against my skin. I want to see myself bleed. I want to squeeze as much blood out of the cuts as I can. And when they scab over, I want to pick them until they bleed again. I want to pick off the scabs, slowly, watching as it slowly breaks away from my flesh and watch as the blood rises up and kisses the air. I want to feel the pain. The pain when the blade slices my skin. The pain the next few days, cuts still tender. The pain when the scabs are being ripped off, over and over. The pain when I look at the scars and remember what caused them. Well maybe not that last one. But the other ones, I want that. I desperately want to feel the blade of my exacto knife on my skin. I want that so bad. Why? Why do I get so much pleasure out of making myself bleed? Why am I so satisfied after I cut myself? Why? I don’t know why I am the way I am. And I don’t know if I will grow up to be just another normal person, or maybe this shit I’m going through will make me famous? I don’t know if my life will actually make a difference. I don’t even know if my life will be much longer. It saddens me to think that when I grow up I might have a life that is just ordinary. I want all of this shit, this living hell, to eventually make an impact on the world. But at the same time, wouldn’t it be a miracle if I could just achieve normalcy? Yes! But somehow, somehow that’s not good enough. If you were to ask me where I would like to be in ten years I would answer with this; in ten years all I truly want is to be genuinely happy. And while it sounds like a pretty decent answer, even while typing it, it also sounds like the worlds biggest cop out. What are my goals? Really. I don’t know. I want to be alive I guess. But at the same time I wish life could just be over now. Can I see a career? Not really. I can’t see myself actually doing anything for a living. I love art and fashion and music. But I couldn’t picture myself doing anything with them. And I couldn’t see myself in an office either. Can I see a relationship? Maybe, I’m not sure about this one. I think I’m one or two steps away from believing that men plus me doesn’t equal anything. Can I see a family? No. Do I want a family? Yes of course! But I couldn’t bear passing this hell onto an innocent child. It’s a selfish act, and while I do eventually want children, it hurts -hurts so much- to think of the possibility of my child going through what I am going through now. No, that is much too selfish. So you see, the easiest answer to that question is the one I gave because I don’t know what I want and it’s too scary to make perfect goals that I will never achieve. One thing that has been on my mid lately is memoirs. I’ve been toying around with the idea of writing one. I think it would be amazing, beautiful, if I could write a memoir. But it scares me. That is a huge commitment, and if I decide to do it I want to commit to it. I don’t want to write a few pages and then give up on it. I don’t even know if I am capable of writing like that. I have never been able to write a decent story, so I cant imagine writing page after page. But it would be mine. It would be MY memoir. But the thing is, I wouldn’t even know where to start! I wouldn’t know how to write it, or what kind of style to write it in, what kind of voice to tell it through. It’s all so complicated! But I wont give up on the idea just yet, I just need to dwell on it for a while.
