Why was junior high a terrible time for you? I thought we were friends.

Junior High got bad in eighth grade. I'm unsure why but that's when I began my destructive path of self-injury. Not so bueno. We were probably friends but as you asked anonymously I can't honestly tell you if we were. I was very general in the below questions, so sorry if you felt left out. Each group I've been in has one defining friend for me and I call the entire group by that one person. So, you were probably included, just not by name?

Ask me anything. I dare you.

Weird

I don't know what to call this.... restlessness?

I have a distinct feeling to be doing many and multiple things right now--smoking a cigarette, running, cutting myself, putting pen to paper in a prolific attempt to make sense of just one more part of myself--but none of those ideas seem to fulfill whatever it is I'm searching for at this hour.

Outside seemed the place to be as I sweatily rolled around the quilts and the comforters and the pillows on my bed, but outside isn't as cold as I would like to be and I still feel unfulfilled.

So what is it I'm looking for?

The fact that I'm blogging this shames me as these feelings and words are too... sacred... for the cyberspace cacophony. The scratching of ballpoint to wood pulp would please me so much more but why waste these feelings on trash?

I am being mercilessly forced to read my work in front of my class tomorrow. I'm not looking forward to it.

Fuck, I don't want to talk about class I don't want to talk about anything I want to do I want to be I want to

Infatuations, unexpected,

Unnerving; restlessness that ceases to let go of me and the repetitive line of wishes, wishes, wishes right now have an alarming grasp on innerworkings mental activities does it really matter.

These Stories Are Ringing In My Ears

We critiqued two stories in my fiction class yesterday. One of them was really interesting, about a guy who immersed fantasy and memory into his reality as he misses his ex-girlfriend. I thought it was really amazing. I love the feeling certain stories give me and this kid, the one I'm stalking to Espresso Roma (No, I'm not really stalking. I'm just finding him to be interesting from a distance and don't really have the nerve to tell him in person or in a way that's less creepy. How do you tell someone they're interesting to you when you know nothing about them and not be creepy? I'd rather be creepy from a distance.) Anyway, it was good. Reminded me a lot of the... I want to call them The Blake Years but damn it if I have to say his name all the time.

What shall I call them then? "A rose by any other name would still smell as sweet" and by any other name, that period of my life would still suck.

I don't want to call them The Blake Years because in fact, I don't want him to ever read this or for me to say this out loud in front of him because I really don't want to hurt him. In reality, I really want nothing to do with him anymore. Not in a bad way, just... we can't be friends, we're not more than friends, we're that awkward too much history. I said this to Stephanie- (well, I typed it out and it felt too personal to say, especially when I know certain readers do not have the full story, so ask me in person if you really want to know.) But it's true. It is too hard and I don't have what it takes to make our relationship/friendship/awkwarship anything. Therefore, no Blake, no Blake Years, just... the years I wasted. The years I wasted yet learned so much. Too long. Acronym?

The second story was about a girl Carmen who had a lot of family baggage and she has these mysterious to the reader scars all over her stomach. Turns out, she's a cutter, which none of us ever guessed during workshop. Espresso Roma Kid (ERK from here on out) asked why it wasn't on the wrists, and she said because the stomach was easier to hide. Then ERK was like "Oh good, so it's not like for attention" and then the workshop ended with everyone making slights about people who cut, like they listen to this certain band and dress this way and have razorblades just chilling in their bathroom all the time.

I've said it on here before and those who know me know this, I used to have a problem with cutting from eighth grade through sophomore year of high school. And if you've read some of my more depressing blogs on here, they usually have to do with a fear of relapsing. And it always hurts me so much when people make fun of self-injury. It's not funny. It's not something that only affects "emo" or "goth" kids. I haven't changed much in the way of looks and apparel and outward demeanor. Would you count me as an emo or goth kid? Would you look at me and say she cuts herself? Probably not. So why in the fuck do people have to always assume that? It pisses me off to no end.

I've had people make fun of me, not only behind my back, but to my face about cutting. People I trusted and loved tear me apart because of something that I couldn't help, something I was literally addicted to. I know their words and laughter hurts, and it's not what anyone dealing with self-injury needs.

I just hope if anyone can read this and be more aware then I did my part. If you ever want to know more about this, don't hesitate to ask me. It's a part of my past and made me who I am today. I'm not ashamed and would more than willing to share my experience with you. But please think about your words when you talk about this. You never know if the girl with the smiles plastered all over her face is actually hiding her pain beneath them.

You never really know.

http://www.twloha.com/

It Hurts Again

I have way too much stress this quarter.

I couldn't handle it on Saturday. I kind of lost it, in my own, private, indulgent way.

I sat in the shower letting scalding hot water pour down onto me and listened to "The Way She Feels" on repeat for about forty minutes.

It's been enough for me to indulge the want, the desire, to think about it, to acknowledge it, to accept its tormentous and occassional appearances in my life. I scratched at the itch until it went away.

It's been enough for me thus far but I have more years, more decades to live.

Will the itch ever be completely gone? Will I fail at holding myself back?

Whenever this occurs to me, I like to think that I can, that these four years haven't been for nothing, that my God isn't nothing.

And yet I worry that one day my indulgence won't be enough.

And I don't know what I'll do it if it does.

Disenchanted.

She died.

I cannot believe after all of the progress and beauty and everything, that she just dies in the end.

I honestly cannot even possibly consider she chose that. I cannot see her that way. After everything was becoming so... good. And then, it's just over.

After everything, she dies.

It scares the shit out of me. No matter what, no matter how I can change the way I think or how strong I think I am, that it could not even matter in the end. Even when things are good, even when things are the heading in a most beautiful direction, it doesn't even matter.

I feel like I'm just waiting for relapse.
My wrists itch. And I feel like I'm only in a losing battle.

I desperately don't want it to be.
Oh, God, please don't let it be.
Please.
Please.
Please.

I promise I will do whatever I can to win.
I just still can't believe she fucking died.

Go Ask Alice.

I've recently been reading this book. It... makes me happy the lowest points of my life were not as bad as hers. Sure, I was so addicted to cutting myself that I couldn't go to sleep without spilling blood and suicide was a constant temptation, but I never was so drugged out I hitchhiked to Denver and then to Oregon and not hahve any idea what I was doing or where I was. Sure, I have done things I'm not proud of with boys, but I never blew a guy to score some pot.

I read for about an hour tonight. I decided after reading that I needed to immediately listen to some worship music. It was a good choice. I just feel better after being so depressed.

I really related to a moment she had though--she decided she wanted to become a psychologist and help teenagers because she knows where they are, the depths they can sink to. It's exactly a moment I've had. I've been through bad divorces, parental abandonment, suicide, depression, not communicating with my mom, revival, regression, and relapse. I want to help people my age. I want them to see there is more to life than this, that it is beautiful and amazing and worth being here every single day, that it doesn't have to be a cycle, monotonous, boring, that it can be joyous and above all else happy.

I want to show people God and everything He blesses you with daily, continuously, constantly.

I fear I cannot do that. I see this ultimate beauty and love my life, no matter how bad it gets. I want others to see this too. I want people to experience the freedom and satisfaction I get from being myself and not giving a damn about what people think. I see people's potential. I see people achieving their dreams, breaking the mold, living their lives the way they want to. But people just don't see that for themselves and no one seems to really want to try to achieve those things. I mean, they do, way down in their hearts of hearts. It's what we all want essentially.

But people just don't do it. I can honestly say I don't achieve my own potential. How do you do that? I think we all see people doing EVERYTHING and we wish we could be them. We never see ourselves as quite complete, quite content, quite perfect the way we are.

I don't know to fix that, except do EVERYTHING.

And here we are, back to the fucking "should" I slave to.

Damn it.

To Write Love.

TWLOHA is an organization I have loved and cherished since I first stumbled upon it my senior year in high school. As a former "cutter," seeing so many people come together for something most people try to ignore brings me to tears every time I check in on the group to see what they're up to. To me, their work is beautiful.

Over one year ago, I got a tattoo on my left wrist. It says "Love" with a little heart coming off the "e." It covers the same wrist I used to cut for almost three years. I cannot begin to describe everything this tattoo represents. It is a small token of my appreciation for the group who is changing lives daily. It is a reminder for me to write love on myself, not the bloody lines of hate. It is a goal I have set for myself, to write love on the arms and hearts of others. It is an account of those I have loved, love, and will love. It is a symbol of God, the creator and very essence of love. It is a mark of hope. It is my life story.

I just want to say that cutting, self-injury, depression, suicide, helplessness, and hurt are very real. They are not something to be ignored. If someone you know is hurting, reach out to them before there's no one to reach out to. Save. Give hope. Write love on their arms.





It's been almost four years since my last cut. There are some days where love is overwhelming. And there are some days where the struggle is still intense.

But I am glad to be here any day.


www.twloha.com