Just In Case You Were Thinking You’re The Only One

I am almost too scared to write these blogs anymore. After living with my parents my whole life, I know what they would say and do if they found out. They would take away everything. My laptop, phone, anything sharp, they would probably watch me cutting lettuce. Of course, I can’t entirely predict what their response would be… and even my best friend, who will not stop pushing me to tell my parents, can’t tell how they will react. Nothing in this world is predictable, no matter how much we believe it.

I feel absolutely disgusting right now. I feel fat, and lazy, and damaged. I feel like I’ve wasted my entire life, and now I’m just an empty, transparent container with nothing to fill myself up with. I’ve watched so many depression recovery stories on youtube, and nearly all of them end with the girl or guy finding another girl or guy who they fall in love with and who helps them quit.

Just makes me wonder where my knight in shining armor is.

I kind of just want to give up, you know? I’ve waited so long for my butterfly, and it still hasn’t come. It gets to the point that I may see a hundred rays of opportunities each day, but I’ve lost my strength to go after them. I’m almost satisfied. I don’t want to die. Really, I don’t. I just… want to live in a different life.

And yet, there is this part of me that wouldn’t give this life up for the world.

I may have had a relapse, but I am going to really try to stop this time. I’m getting a bit farther away from my closest sister because she’s mad that I won’t tell my parents. But it’s my choice, and I’ve made it. I think I am going to wait until I am in college this fall to tell them. Or maybe I’ll wait until my 18th birthday next year. I just want to tell them when I am a safe distance away.

But I will keep writing. It helps with the triggers and urges, it’s like a second outlet to the uncontrollable sea of emotions raging inside of me. Obviously I can control them to an extent… but all it takes is looking at one drop of blood from someone else, or seeing a blade in my dad’s workshop and I just can’t take it.

But this is basically the sole reason I started blogging. When I see that people are reading and responding to what I am writing, and commenting their support, and they tell me not to give up, it’s the one thing that keeps me moving forward. People I know personally in my life may not have any idea of this struggle, but I know that you guys do, and your support means everything to me. I don’t get it anywhere else, except from my best friend. But logging in and seeing that I have new comments is like peeking into my mailbox and seeing that people have sent me letters. It’s encouraging and fantastic. And it motivates me to get up and really do something with myself and not cut.

I just have to thankyou. Anyone reading this, and you are a cutter, or have an eating disorder like me, you’re part of a family who understands what you’re going through. We help eachother and support eachother. I look out for cutting blogs by other people, and I try to comment my support because I know are looking for it just as much as I am. I will never judge another person.

Stay Strong, lovelies.

-A.C. ❤ xxx

To Keep the Secrets

I can count on one hand the amount of people that know about any of this. Well, people that I know. You guys obviously do. And that’s not for the reason that I don’t want to give off the impression that I am doing this because it is mainstream, or to get attention. It’s for the fact that I really am terrified of people I know knowing about my problems. It’s easy to tell a stranger because they’ve never known you before, they don’t have anything to judge off of, and you might not ever see them again. They can’t really hurt you. Unless of course they find your family and tell them. But that’s rare and only stems out of people who have nothing better to do.

Why do we keep it a secret, really? I mean, yeah, it’s because we’re scared. But what exactly are we scared of? Our parents, for one. Who knows how they would react. What else… everyone looking at us with either pity or disgust. So we’re afraid of getting judged. That’s legit. Anything else?

Both of those are pretty general. Within each there are a thousand different concerns and fears. But basically we fear people, and what they would do to us.

When I meet someone else who has ever self-harmed, the first thing they say is, “I was embarrassed because it’s such a mainstream thing.” Or, “It’s so stereotyped that I didn’t really think it was a serious concern.”

Please inform me of ANYTHING these days that isn’t considered ‘mainstream.’ The entire American dream and life is stereotyped. Suicide is in, life is out. End the struggle before you’ve had a chance to beat it, no one will miss you. You weren’t mean to be born. Some people just weren’t meant to walk this earth. And you’re one of them. Worthless, ordinary, cowardly, emo.

It hurt to write those words because with each one was a memory of when they were said to me at one point in my life. If my sleeve accidentally slid up at school and one of the cats saw them, they would always respond with a sick smile and “What, you’re a cutter? Please. Attention. That’s all it’s for.” And I would slink away because what was I supposed to do? I’m a cautious person. I don’t like getting in fights. I like to look ahead and compare what my life will be like if I had responded with a comeback, or if I hadn’t. I normally go with the latter.

While other people who don’t understand stomp on our dignity and wear down any pride we have left, we know we aren’t any of those things. We’re victims, aren’t we? The many who were unfortunate enough to succumb to the pressure and heartache because at the time, our hearts weren’t strong enough to bear it. We had to have some sort of outlet for the emotional trauma we were going through. Some of us didn’t even go through emotional trauma. We just… broke down. One day we decided that it was all too much. You know when they say little things matter more than the big things? It’s true. Because for people like me who didn’t really have a reason to be depressed, the reason was all the little bad things that happened over a period of time and just kept building up until they amassed into a huge, crushing boulder. It was like that Indiana Jones scene when he’s running from that boulder booby trap…

Except, we didn’t have a rope to swing out of the way.

The point of all that is, we keep it a secret because we’re afraid of being viewed as dumb little cowards who wanted nothing but attention. I’m still having a hard time believing that anyone could be that heartless towards real people who are having real struggle. I am fighting with the decision of telling my parents or not, or wait until I’m a bit older to tell them so they can’t do anything even more degrading to my life. My best friend and closest sister want me to tell them. Why shouldn’t they? But now, after I explained it all above, you know why I don’t want to tell them. It’s terrifying.

So, for now, I will keep my secrets to myself. Don’t push others to do what they are ready to do. Everything takes time, and with time, everything will come out.

 Stay Strong. 

-A.C. ❤ xxx

In Canticums Power (The Songs Power)

I’ve been thinking a lot lately of how I would tell my parents. Obviously that is a terrifying thing to consider, even though my desire for some real help is really strong. There are pros and cons with both scenarios. Tell them, and lose their complete trust forever. But I would get the help I need.

Or don’t tell them, and they still trust me forever. But I’m left to my misery and I suffer silently and alone.

Don’t you love choices?

 

I did have a relapse last night. But I’m not going to dwell on it. Even if it takes baby steps, I will get there. My future depends on it. When I have a particularly bad urge, I will write a poem while listening to Michael W. Smith’s Glory album, and most of the time, it works. But last night… last night was just really bad, and I had a breakdown. But who’s perfect? Flaws are just a part of humanity.

 

“Music is the universal language of mankind.” -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

You know, when words fail to express the thoughts and feeling that you can’t quite get across, music speaks for you. Is there really a definition for it? Mr. Longfellow came up with a pretty good one, and he made it simple to understand. Music is powerful, and that’s about all I can say.

When it comes to music, there are two or maybe three sides of me. One, a big part, is my classical side. I am in love with Frank Sinatra, especially when he plays and sings in Anchors Aweigh in 1945. Not only is he devilishly handsome, but he’s got a gorgeous voice to go along with those looks. I do enjoy a few others, like Fred Astaire, The Temptations, Duke Ellington, Harry Connick Jr., and Bobby Darin.

The second part of me is epic. And I am not kidding. I can sit in my room, drawing and listening to my playlist of epic movie background songs (orchestrated) for 4 hours straight. I am a huge fan of Hans Zimmer and the work he has done; he is absolutely brilliant.

And if I were to have a third side (which, I guess I do), it would be all Southern Gospel, baby. The Gaithers, The Bishops, and about a bagillion other southern gospel artists hoard space on my music player.

 

The point of all that? A lot (most) of my acquaintances at school will ask eachother what their favorite music genre is. The most common answers are Rock, Dubstep, Rap, and Country. Literally, that is all they listen to. Where’s the variety? If you would ask me that question, I would give you a detailed description of the multiple genres I listen to. The kind of music I play depends on the mood I am in. If I have just self-harmed, or I want to, I normally put on some Rainymood or my Hanz Zimmer/Piano Guys station, because classical orchestrated songs are fuel for my thoughts so that I don’t just go dead.

Just out of curiosity, and for the sake of maybe bringing closure to this ridiculously random blog post, why don’t you comment your favorite genres? If you only have one, that’s totally fine. If I were to pick a main it would be classical. But I want to know what yours are! I’ll reply to any comments made. 🙂 Stay strong, loves. Don’t give up the fight.

 

-A.C. ❤ xxx

be positive.

10 Steps to a Positive Body Image

Where The Streets Have No Name

Someday, I’m going to make it to the top. I’ll be a hero for others just like me. I’ll have the strength I gained through the struggle. I’ll be stronger than I ever was before.

Someday.

But things take time. A LOT of time, it seems like, especially when you feel like your life is on pause and you’re stuck in one place. Moving forward at a steady pace hasn’t really proven to be a common talent among us. The path is littered with triggers and emotional encounters with things we thought we had left behind long ago, blocked by regret and anger. There are two ways to feel about all that: We can either stare at it and give up completely, or we can whip out our bush cutters and chainsaws and hack through all that crap. There is always another choice.

But for the time being, my home is a place where the streets have no name, just pictures and flashbacks of old memories to keep me moving forward, no matter how uneven the trail might get. Everyone needs a new start after enduring trauma for a prolonged period of time, so why not commit to making one for yourself? I have. I know for a fact that no matter how many relapses I have, no matter how many people let me down (or how many people I let down), no matter how terrifying and difficult the journey will get, I will get to my happily ever after.

I guess that sounds a little overrated. Cheesy story book ending. But in a sense, it’s really true. In the end, if you haven’t progressed or gotten any happier, maybe you should stop and consider that the problem holding you from all that could be You. After all, we are our own enemies. We tend to hold ourselves back for fear that attempting anything new will harm us. Because we tried new stuff already, didn’t we? And look where that got us. Bloody arms, 80 lb bodies, sunken hearts. Trying something new got us here, because it turned out to be a huge mistake. It was the risk that beat us.

But how will we ever get anywhere if we don’t get ourselves some carpe diem, huh? Seize the day. Chase after those opportunities. Don’t let yourself hold yourself back. You might have to stay where the streets have no name for awhile in order to get at least a part of you back together so that you don’t totally break apart again. But it will be worth it. Relapses are all part of the healing process. Mistakes will be made. But in the end, you’ll get there. 

 

From The Heart of Me

On the outside, I’m everything everyone thinks I am. Young, independent, and talkative. My life as they know it is happy and good. I have friends and family that love me, my grades in school are good, I have goals for my life and a true and earnest desire to be close to God.

                But judging a book by its cover, whether in a good way, or a bad way, is something our culture has always done. If they seem alright on the outside, then that must mean they are alright on the inside, too. No one in my life has ever lingered on the possibility that there might be more to my story. On the outside, I am only 16. I am young to people who look at me. But on the inside, I could be 102, or maybe more, to people who look in me. I’m not actually independent, but insecure and scared of stepping out onto my own. I’m talkative to cover up the terror I feel inside of speaking in public or personally to people I’ve never met and am expected to talk with.

                Our issues are overlooked a lot by the people closest to us. They don’t want to believe that we could have problems, that, no matter how good and happy the person is, there is always the chance that they can lose us. They think that if they ignore it long enough, it will just go away. But what they don’t know is that for every second they turn their faces away from the obvious problems and hardship we are going through, we match it with more hurt and grief to ourselves. It’s all we can do to assure ourselves that we are alive and breathing, instead of dead, like we feel all the time.

                It’s like being stuck inside this personality you were never meant to develop, like you were forced into it and now you have to find your way back out. A lot of times I just lay here and think how unfair all of it is, how I’m too young to be going through this, especially when a year ago I was a completely normal person. But after building up walls and protection against outside forces, not all of them necessarily bad, I now have this shell of a body that I live in and hide behind.

                You know, bodies are strange things. They’re like my cell phone case. I didn’t have one for awhile, and I was always dropping my phone on the ground. After some time, it got lots of scratches and scars from making contact with the asphalt over and over again. So I decided to get a case, a pretty one, to cover up all the ugly dents and grooves underneath it. People would never know it was damaged. All they could see was the beautiful things on the outside, making the phone appear to be something that it definitely was not. Bodies are like that. They can be decorated and dressed up on the outside to appear to others as normal and beautiful and happy. But that shell could be covering up some ugly scars underneath so that no one would judge the way it’s handled by the owner.

                That’s what we’re most afraid of. Being judged. It causes anxiety, and depression, and we fear crowds and even small groups of people we once called close friends. We’re afraid that someone will take one look at us and somehow know our every secret. To anyone else, we’re fine. Normal. It’s pretty easy to even fool that professional psychiatrist that you’ve been seeing; they think you’re making progress and recovering. Not even they can see inside of us. They can only absorb the data from their observations and hypothesize on it. 

                After actually falling into depression, it’s a hard pit to climb out of. That’s not even metaphorical; depression really is a black, dark pit with little rays of sunshine that we can never catch. Nothing but disappointment every time we try, and we’re left in the cold again to wait for other opportunities to come to us. We tend to get started towards them a little late every time, though, and we’re not brave enough to go seek out the opportunities ourselves. Actually, we are brave enough. We’re just too frightened of failing the quest.

                It’s hard to explain the attachment someone like us gets to the scars we cause to ourselves. I can try, though. When you’re deep into this sickness, it’s like reality sort of takes a pause, and you’re stuck in time. You’re not sure if you’re dead, or alive, or dying. Making those scars on ourselves gives us something to look at when we are doubting our existence and confirm that we are indeed still here. Alive. Technically dead, but our hearts are still beating.

                When people tell me that there is a better life as soon as I walk under the rainbow to the other side, it ticks me off. Life isn’t a single step from one side of the rainbow to the other, ‘happier’ side. Life is a series of complete failures and heartbreaks and tragedies, and things don’t get better when you get to ‘your rainbow.’ You’ve got a whole freaking mountain to climb before you even get to the beginning of the rest of your life. Graduating high school does not mark better days to come. It. Is. Terrifying. It’s a reality that we are dumped into with nothing but a license, a diploma, and tough love to get us through college.

                I think that’s what I have trouble most with. Parents begin this decent in their love support as you grow older, thinking that it will make you more independent in life. Today’s culture has molded this brand new (idiotic) idea that you don’t need a parents love to get you through! And your parents pick up on it pretty quick, with enthusiasm, especially if you’re the youngest child in the family. They’ve raised their other kids, got them off to college and married. Now they’ve got you, the end of the rope. What’s the difference if we just let this one do what he/she wants? They’ll go on like the others; we’ve done our duty and this one should know the drill by now.

                Tell me I’m not the only one who sees the problem with that. Parents forget that the best children who grow up to be godly and loving are the ones who were loved with godly, loving parents! Hugging and talking and playing with each other shouldn’t stop when the kid turns 16. They are still children at that stage. In fact, that’s when we need the most love and direction because we have no idea where in the world we’re heading. We don’t get too old to talk to, parents. Believe it or not, we want to have conversations with you and your undivided attention (i.e. your stupid smartphone/tablet/whatever device you’re currently messing on while we are trying to talk to you.) We might seem like we’re spiting you with rebellion and lies, but what else do you expect us to do when nothing else will get your attention?

                On the inside, it’s not a fire. It’s not even remotely warm. It’s cold, and it’s dark, and it’s pain that never stops. It’s insanity that can never be made sane. It’s a storm that has no blue skies in sight. It’s sitting in my bed, tears falling down my face, gasping for breath in between the beats of a racing heart. It’s crying out for help when no one hears you. It’s complete hopelessness and agony and death. It’s me, on the inside.

                I’ve introduced you to my world. Now you know the emotion we live with. It’s not sadness or anger. It’s a feeling all its own. And the only way to relieve the pressure and mental pain is to cause pain somewhere else other than our fragile minds. The body is not so easily broken. So we cut ourselves open, burn our skin to scars, scratch open the scabs of our self injury, bite away the pains of our own souls. It’s the only way to keep our very essences alive, and pulsing. Because without the physical pain to fall back on to, we’ll shrivel up and wither away to nothing but a dusty skeleton that no one notices. It’s a life-line, a crutch.

                No matter how far away you’ve think we’ve gotten, no one is ever too far away to rescue. We may have run from the rules and our lives, but maybe it’s just because we want to see who loves us enough to come after us, to follow the trail and read the signs. We’re waiting to see who’ll walk behind us as far as it takes until we reach the end destination.

                Because that’s all we really want. For someone to understand. And even if they don’t fully get why we do what we do, it enough that they even tried, and didn’t give up. Love isn’t tested by the amount of flowers and gifts you give a person, but by the miles it travels and the fire it goes through to make it out across the finish line on the other end. Love never stops. It’s eternal. It’s beautiful. It’s the soul speaking to the heart, and the heart speaking to others, making a difference. A voice is all we want. So give us a chance to build up the courage to get one instead of shooting us down before we get there.