Tuesday, January 4, 2011

Revolution's not easy, with a Civil War on the inside.

I'm sitting here in my room after a fairly decent day, save the crying from midnight to 6 AM and not getting any sleep, hardly.
I went shopping with one of my dear friends, and spent way too much money. I laughed like I didn't know I could laugh anymore. Then I came home... and it hit again. The depression... crushing my chest. So, I decided I would go bathe before it got any worse, and I lost all my functionality. I caught a glimpse of my skin in the mirror. I usually refrain from looking in the mirror if I wear anything less than long sleeves and long pants and such. Make no mistake, I wear short sleeves and sleeveless things. I wear shorts. But I never look at myself. My scars are too much to take in.
Twelve (almost thirteen) years of abusing myself in the form of cuts and burns show themselves prominently across my arms and legs and stomach. It's not pretty. But at the same time, why should I have to hide? Not to sound like I love my self-injury or anything, but shouldn't I be proud? Each scar tells a story. Each one speaks of a time when I didn't know if I could live, but alas, here I am.
Shouldn't life be something to be proud of? Other addicts get the privilege of being able to say how many days sober they are... and being loved for it.
For a self-injurer, you say "I haven't cut in *insert number* of days/months/years/etc." and all you get is "Why would you do that in the first place?"
As if an alternative to suicide isn't enough of a reason, as if not being able to express emotions is enough of a reason, as if to live isn't enough of a reason.
I shouldn't have to hide. I should be able to tell my story proudly. I should be able to say my scars are proof that I can live through hell and be looked at normally for it.
Living through hell isn't easy, people. You wake up every day and want to die. Every. fucking. day.
You question the point of life. Somedays, you don't even get out of bed. You lose friends, family, activities. You become so alone. So so alone.
But you've lived. So why the fucking stigma?
Every self-injurer I know is a strong, amazing person. They've lived through so much. Why do they have to be judged? If I could, I'd hug them all and tell them I am so so proud that they live.
I know they'd do the same for me.
So, people... let's drop the stigma. Let's be glad we live tonight.
I love you all. <3

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