Having recently resigned myself to not giving a fuck what people think of my habits and coping mechanisms, I've found that there is a lot less guilt about it, and a lot less negative emotions flying around. Shame, being a big one that people like to saddle on me. They through around terms like unhealthy and self destructive, but is it anymore so than a night of heavy drinking? Sure my way is more cosmetic and visible, but I don't damage my internal organs at all.
I digress.
I've been meaning to write since last week as an update since last week was, admittedly, fucking insane. I haven't had to cut emotions out of me in a long time, and now having done it, it feels oddly peaceful. It was a part of my life pre-move, and much like my attempted fasting and abstaining from sexual activity pre-transition failed, my attempt at doing such for my emotional safety net also failed. I was under so much pressure to be this perfectly healthy girl that did everything right. Moving was supposed to be the start of a new beginning with no therapist and no cutting. I've lost the sanctity of the act, It isn't a big deal, and it isn't something I'm going to let people talk down to me about or give me shit over. Yes, I see the frowns you give, I see the disapproving glances and hidden admonishments stuck in your throat. No, I don't care about that, and will offer you cuddles and hugs to comfort you. Rest assured there is nothing you can do (oh wait, apparently if someone else does it for me, it's healthy) to fix things.
The assertiveness and assuredness of the language used here is largely reflective how it changes my mood. It is that of my switch side, that simply does not care about most things, and knows the uselessness of 90% of what we decide to do in a day.
That doesn't mean I'm not still upset. I still break down and bruise easily. I had a very sweet moment with a metamore this past weekend who also happens to have been a cutter at one point. Very sweet words were exchanged, tears fell, cuddles were given and it was very nice.
But while nice, it is a patch at best. I still pine and wish for a sweet romance of my own, one that I don't have to sacrifice my standards or expectations for. Not that I am overly picky, but just being able to have a suitor that knows about my sexuality and gender issues would be nice. I grow entirely too weary of being ashamed of who I am and of my body.
The rest of life is largely the same. Pointless and hollow, and in dire need of some sort of creative expression. The problem I have is that I never know where to begin. I have a thousand possible choices and it dwarfs me completely to have it laid out before me. I am paralyzed by it and never get anything going because all of it is a blank page with no structure of idea to guide it, except for the general idea of "make life not shit".
My Metamore said that I should try letting it all out at once. I responded that it would likely destroy me. The more I think of it, the more it seems that my life is defined as watching a fragile girl explode from the inside out in a very slow controlled demolition one day at a time. There is such..an unending rage and grief that swallows my existence. It is deafening.
Perhaps learning to mute that sound, has rendered me also deaf to all the other internal sounds. To hear one, is to hear the anger, and after spending 20 years learning to tune that out, learning to listen to it again is proving difficult.
I can write the words, I can carve them into my skin in fact, but the melody still eludes me. In the end though, perhaps I am, just a silly girl. Hoping for things she can not have.
I digress.
I've been meaning to write since last week as an update since last week was, admittedly, fucking insane. I haven't had to cut emotions out of me in a long time, and now having done it, it feels oddly peaceful. It was a part of my life pre-move, and much like my attempted fasting and abstaining from sexual activity pre-transition failed, my attempt at doing such for my emotional safety net also failed. I was under so much pressure to be this perfectly healthy girl that did everything right. Moving was supposed to be the start of a new beginning with no therapist and no cutting. I've lost the sanctity of the act, It isn't a big deal, and it isn't something I'm going to let people talk down to me about or give me shit over. Yes, I see the frowns you give, I see the disapproving glances and hidden admonishments stuck in your throat. No, I don't care about that, and will offer you cuddles and hugs to comfort you. Rest assured there is nothing you can do (oh wait, apparently if someone else does it for me, it's healthy) to fix things.
The assertiveness and assuredness of the language used here is largely reflective how it changes my mood. It is that of my switch side, that simply does not care about most things, and knows the uselessness of 90% of what we decide to do in a day.
That doesn't mean I'm not still upset. I still break down and bruise easily. I had a very sweet moment with a metamore this past weekend who also happens to have been a cutter at one point. Very sweet words were exchanged, tears fell, cuddles were given and it was very nice.
But while nice, it is a patch at best. I still pine and wish for a sweet romance of my own, one that I don't have to sacrifice my standards or expectations for. Not that I am overly picky, but just being able to have a suitor that knows about my sexuality and gender issues would be nice. I grow entirely too weary of being ashamed of who I am and of my body.
The rest of life is largely the same. Pointless and hollow, and in dire need of some sort of creative expression. The problem I have is that I never know where to begin. I have a thousand possible choices and it dwarfs me completely to have it laid out before me. I am paralyzed by it and never get anything going because all of it is a blank page with no structure of idea to guide it, except for the general idea of "make life not shit".
My Metamore said that I should try letting it all out at once. I responded that it would likely destroy me. The more I think of it, the more it seems that my life is defined as watching a fragile girl explode from the inside out in a very slow controlled demolition one day at a time. There is such..an unending rage and grief that swallows my existence. It is deafening.
Perhaps learning to mute that sound, has rendered me also deaf to all the other internal sounds. To hear one, is to hear the anger, and after spending 20 years learning to tune that out, learning to listen to it again is proving difficult.
I can write the words, I can carve them into my skin in fact, but the melody still eludes me. In the end though, perhaps I am, just a silly girl. Hoping for things she can not have.
