Getting worse, without actually feeling it.

I am supposed to study. Supposed to deal with my self-harm. Trust me, it’s not that easy. It is not as straight forward. I feel the darkness is just getting stronger. I am running in circles. Questioning whether I am developing an actual depression. Why I am I suspecting it? Well, I am crying. A lot. The weekend I spent binging TV. And that’s how I spent every weekend in the last 7 weeks. I am aware that a TV addiction is not a tell tale sign for a depression, but it can be one of the symptoms.

This morning I woke up with a tinnitus. If I think about it, I know that I am worse than I’ve been for a long time, but I feel strangely okay. Just a big bulk of nothingness. And I know that’s not good. Because nothing is exactly what will get me cutting eventually. The keyword is “eventually”. For now I am okay. The problem is: I may feel okay, but before I know why, before I know that something is wrong, I end up cutting. And I don’t feel bad. Neither before nor afterwards. It is like I just don’t care anymore. So I am just doing what I can: trying to study. Trying to fill the void of nothingness with knowledge. It does not work. But I gotta keep trying.

The War I Fight

In the context of cutting, I have mentioned before, that I often do not even want to stop. I realized that cutting is not my enemy. I do not hate cutting. I do not hate myself for cutting. Cutting is a friend. When I have added another line onto my skin, I do not put the blade away hating myself. I am just as empty as I was before. But I do not feel the need to cut. When I have sled down into addiction, the need to cut grows stronger and about every 48 hours I end up giving in. So, when I am done, my thought is:
“I don’t have to cut for next few hours.”

How does this make sense with the fact that I call cutting a problem?! I said, that anyone who cuts should probably get help. But if cutting is a friend, and we do not want to stop, why would we seek help?

Just because I do not hate myself for cutting, does not mean, I do not hate myself. Just because cutting is not the actual problem does not mean that I do not have a problem. I hate myself for being weak. I hate myself for being negative (yes, this is why I make such a fuss about positivity). I hate myself for the sadness. For the intense feeling of loneliness that I cannot handle. That darkness inside me. That darkness that I express, when I cut, is what is my problem. Is what I want to get rid of. Is what I want to treat. Is what I need help with.

A friend of mine recently answered my question whether cutting defined me by saying: “No, but it’s a big part of you.” Well, I guess he meant the darkness. He meant the pain. Because cutting is just expressing that. And this is why this entire thing is so hard… I am not at war with cutting. I am at war with myself. With the feeling of emptiness. The feeling of not being good enough. The sadness that just takes control even though I know I have everything I need. I have everything to be happy. And yet: I cannot escape the cold inside me. I cannot escape myself. I cannot experience peace. Because I am fighting myself. And I do not know why. Sure, I know I hate myself for sleeping through lectures and classes. For binge-watching random shows instead of studying. But I don’t feel like that is the actual problem.

This is perfect conflict material for a book: I am fighting a war with myself for a reason that I do not know. And I do not know how to find that problem, so how am I supposed to change anything? And then again: I have been told there might not be an actual issue. It might be impossible to pinpoint it. I might never really be free of the darkness. And… that is scary. Because I do not want that to be the case. I want to be okay some day. I want it to stop. I am not afraid of fighting. I am not too weak to fight and win. But I cannot fight something that I don’t know. I could win, if this thing was winnable. If there was a single way to win this, I would go it. No matter what. But I have not found that way. And I have not met anyone who can show me that way.

Just a word on how cutting is perceived: It may seem like attention-seeking. And it may even be that. But there is so much more behind it. When I started cutting, I thought it was simple. But it is not. And I assume this goes for any addiction. Maybe this even goes for anything in this world that involves human beings. So, I think, we are too quick to judge. Especially me. If there is something that my condition has taught me it is that things are not always as they seem and while it is easy to objectively determine is something is right or wrong, it is impossible to judge a person.

So, I think especially social media, but we in our daily lives, should go easier on people. Because, we do not know why they do something. Maybe they are just hurting. Maybe they are doing it for a reason. Maybe they have no choice. Maybe… maybe. Point is: we do not know. And I grew up thinking that someone who is addicted, is addicted by his/her own fault. But I have learned that this is not necessarily true. And think we should -I should- treat addicted people more with sympathy than with judgment. Because the sympathy might actually help them, while the judgment definitely will not.

The Silent Scream

As a Teenager I started writing books. Encoding what I felt. Trying to cope. It worked for a while. Then my world changed. I got out of school. I was supposed to be an adult. And I tried. Tried so hard. Maybe that part was even successful. But I stopped writing for the most part. I started talking. I started explaining. Texting. But my words did not reach the hearts of those I cared about. They still could not understand. They just could not see, how my life was suffocating me. How my words were me begging for help.

And that is how I started screaming. Writing on my skin. But I was under the misconception that this would force people to listen. It is incredible, but all it does is make you even more lonely.

There are those who care. Those who try to understand. Those who almost do understand. And there are those who just wish you’d stop. But you don’t. Not because you would not love them. But because deep inside you feel that they still don’t listen. After all this. They do not listen. And you are still alone. So you keep screaming for help. Silently. Lonely.

No. Not everyone who self-harms feels like this. There are those who hide. Who are not trying to get help from those whom they love. Those who try to cope with their pain by scaring themselves without letting anyone know. Those may call me an attention-seeker. Those may hate me for cutting. Those are the only ones I will ever accept judgment from for what I am doing. But let me say this: If you do not try to be understood… you cannot be smashed to the ground, when you realize that no one understands.

By now… my own body is screaming for the pain to stop. I randomly shiver. My feet fall asleep. My muscles twitch. I am sick. And if I happen to be hungry and eat something, I will get even more sick. I could just let my weight speak for itself. Having a number attatched to a mental condition… just another hope of mine to make them understand. My plan to not feel hungry is simple: keep drinking coffee.

I know this is no joke. I know that I am supposed to fight it. I know that I should not be trying to develop an eating disorder. I actually don’t think I am. I just know that I want to be screaming from the bottom of my heart. I know that I do not want to fight. Because I want people to see. Even though I know they won’t.

What the worst part is? The fact that I do not want to talk to my therapist. The fact that I do not want to heal. I do not want to get better. I don’t. At this point I just wanted to write “It makes no sense.” But the sad thing is, it does. I don’t want to get better… because what is happening is that my symptoms would get taken away. The mental pain I am in, will stay. And the symptoms are my way of crying for help, so unless the pain goes away… I do not want the symptoms to vanish either.