The small cuts hurt too
Why do we hurt? There's a Jim Butcher quote that says pain is for the living. He talks about how pain reminds us that we're alive. But what about when the pain is so intense that we wish we were dead? What do we do when our inner demons can't be contained anymore? What happens when emotional pain is so vibrant within us that it transcends into our physical being? When it hurts to breathe even as we lay otherwise peacefully in our beds? To be trapped in the center of a merry-go-round where instead of colorful horses there are snapping wolves, ready to rip pieces of us away with every turn of the machine? Standing there as more skeleton than body, ragged strips of flesh hanging from bones scarred from cuts that drove too deep.
I hate the moment when I realize that there are no wolves, only my own bloodied hands with jagged nails that continue to carve into me. I smear my pages with red, desperate to salvage the ruined mess I've made of myself. The paint's too thin again, watered down with my tears. I spend hours in the shower, running the water as hot as the limiter will let me, trying to burn myself to ashes.
The desire to continue down a path of self-harm is nearly overwhelming. The urge to punish yourself, convinced that it's all that you deserve...resisting is nearly impossible. Add in the sudden rush of endorphins and the fact that it's borderline free, and you have a recipe for addiction. One could almost find it amusing that someone would use pain to deal with pain.
I week ago I hurt the man that loves me worse than I could've ever predicted that I would. What's more, I ruined a good friendship. Self-hatred threatens to overwhelm me as I look back at the path of destruction left in my wake. Moments like this, I want to listen to those who tell me that I'm only human, as if it could somehow excuse the evil I see within myself. I feel like I spit tar when I speak, my black saliva clinging to everyone I come into contact with. I see the pain in their eyes and know, not think, that I'm the one that breathed it to life. The very idea that I have this kind of power disgusts me and fills me with further pain.
And thus, I find myself writing my pain down once more. I dive into the comfort of pen and paper in hopes that I can exorcise my own demons. Pain is bitter and beautiful, and an inevitable part of being alive. If I could wish anything for those of you reading this, it would be that you are able to take your pain and mold it like clay. Throw it in the fire and let the burning warm you. And remember, "Pain is for living, only the dead don't feel it." (Jim Butcher)