Click here
What's new?
- New domain
- More hosting space
- Blog & Journal
- Photo Gallery
- (free) subdomains & emails offered
|
A Personal History Lesson : 09.07.03 @ 10:04 am Full eight hours of sleep and I'm still tired and ready for bed all over again. So many people I know are going through that time in their life where they second guess/question their personality, their ideals, their prefences... they essetionally second guess them to death. I'm so glad I've gotten to the point where I'm just tired of doing it. It's too mentally and emotionally exhausted to do it anymore. Which makes for less intresting diary entries, but I'm content [most of the time]. I did the religion thing. I was a good little Catholic alter server until about sixth grade when I started asking "Why?" I seconded guessed a religon that I had grown up in. Sometimes I wish I hadn't. My former religion is strangely comforting. I would sit there, and when I was not enjoying the view of the hot chick in front of me and imagining dirty things, I'd have conversations with God. He wasn't a great conversationalist, but he'd listen or at least I liked to pretend that he did. But when I was tweleve I got disgusted with human beings and how they twist religion to their own purposes. I got disgusted with my father for not even questioning his faith and expecting me to not question mine. So I phased it out of me. I did the required Wiccan phase of all lapsed Catholic school girls. I snuck out with my friend "M" (fellow lapsed Catholic) several nights to perform Wiccan Full Moon cerimonies at the school down the road. I did the meditation thing. I actually convinced myself that I still felt that presence that I had conversations with as a child. Then the presence disapeared completely. I'm not sure if I miss it. Somtimes, when I think about it, I do. But if that is God, that presence, I can not associate myself with him at this point in my life. I can not intertwine myself with the blind hatred I have felt at the hands of the religious.
It started with my best friend. I'll admit now that I idolized her in some ways and had more then a tiny crush on her. She was going through a difficult time in her life and in January of my sophomore year she ended up in the mental hospital for attempted suicide and self mutilation. It was not her first try, nor her last. I took an ordinary kitchen knife that night she left for the hospital. I was curious. Why would she do something like that? Why would she cause herself pain and give herself scars that would never go away? Three little slices on my arm. They looked so much like cat scratches I didn't even bother hiding them. But it was a turning point for me. I can't even begin to explain the feeling that it has. It's a release, for anger, for suffering, for pain... and it's a comfort. It did not and does not help that pain can be a turn on for me. It was everything. The miracle drug for all my built up emotional teenage angst. But it was not until September that I actually started to cut regularly. I'd been depressed off an on all my life and certian self esteem issues just made it worse. I can't remember what this type of depression is called, but there is a name for it out there in various medical books. And while I was depressed, I rarely cut because that's not how cutting worked for me. I cut when I was angry. That first time I cut, the night Amanda went away, I was angry. And every time after that, I was angry. Angry at my father, angry at my siblings, angry at the bastards at school who made my life hell through constant, never ending harrassment. Soon I had nights where the next morning I'd wake up with my upper arm such a bloodly pulp you couldn't even see the individual lines, it was just one big messy, bloody, wound. I still have scars from nights like that. Then my mother got sick of ignoring it. I still remember her words, and I think I always will. "Are all lesbians fucked up, or is it just you?" Then began the therepy. I started therepy in November and continued it until June. My mother insisted on going to a doctor in Bangor (a town two hours South) because she didn't want the entire town to see the family's dirty laundry. But that still happened. People at school knew, I wasn't one to hide it that much from friends. If you're friends with me, you're friends with all of me. Take it or leave it. Most left it. When I went to the emergency room in December, the doctor looked at me and my scars in disgust and my mother shifted uncomfortably behind me when he asked about them. Kate was my first love and I still say she saved me life. The day I met her, I was so suicidal it just wasn't funny any more. I realize now that I could have called my doctor, but my doctor scared me. I was so afraid of ending up like Amanda, drugged up to the point where you looked in her beautiful blue eyes and you just couldn't see her anymore. I never did get on medications for my depression, and I still refuse to. Kate. Kate was that silly, romantic first love and I consider myself very lucky to have found her. My self esteem sky rocketed, my depression ebbed slightly and I threw away my "sharpies" a few months later. I'd go through a 600 minute phone card every two weeks. We talked every night. Then the summer came, I went to camp, she went to her camp and we went five months without seeing eachother. We ran out of things to talk about. I had been torturing myself with doubts about our relationship for the past month. When we finally talked about our mutal doubts, we just ended it in the same conversation. Immediatly I regretted it. I went into my bathroom, took a steaming hot shower and just curled up into a ball as the hot water pounded into my skin and cried. I have nothing but fond memories of Kate, memories that I will always treasure. I do not think we ever actually argued about anything more then who was going to pay for what (she always insisted on paying). We are still friends, and I still miss her hugs. I packed up and left my entire support system, my network of friends to help keep me from dangling off of the cliff of depression by my fingers. And I moved into an entirely different culture. No, that's not correct. Northern Virginia doesn't have a culture. It's like the black hole of culture, it sucks all culture out of all its inhabitants and plops them down in suburbia. I still haven't re-built that support system. I've been bouncing around this cliff in a harness and climbing rope tied to a hook at the top of the cliff, and I have no one to be my safety or to stop the rope if it slips. Have I mentioned before that I'm afraid of heights? |