Scars

I can't make them go away. I can't make them stop hurting. I feel like I swallowed a million razor blades tonight...and the only thing the scars beg for is release, or maybe more pain. I just want to stab them with a needle to feed the pain, or maybe release it for good. If I feed it, maybe it will sleep for bit and let me be.

Every time I forget the scares are there, I accidentally brush against one of them or scratch an itch and there they are...jagged little edges...no meat behind them...shallows on my own body....holes where someone got inside of me, but a piss poor job of putting me back together whole. Easy access so maybe they can cut me open again? or just permanently marking me as imperfect.

No one wanted to scare me, and tell me how awful it would be in the end. Everyone just provided me with hope-filled wishes that when it is all over every thing will be better. You'll feel so much better when it is over. HA!...later as I still deal with the constant pain and complications, the truth comes out...It was awful, totally rearranged my insides. I haven't been the same since. Screw hope. I wish I would have known the truth and what the future really had in store for me.

Waking up, feelings as though they were trying to suffocate me...the pain...walking around, holding my insides in, fearing if I let them go, everything would fall out. I didn't care enough to ask for help thought, continuing to push myself further and harder only to cause more pain. The tearing and pulling, at what little of my insides that were still intact, only to in the end, hurt more.

Still, I rub, I scratch the scars. The depressed, rough scar where there once was perfection and the reality of imperfection now stakes claim.

Suicide

This is a topic I'm not sure I ever really want to post, but the reality is I need to. It is not an action I contemplate now, but did in the past. My attempts were obviously, and thankfully, unsuccessful, but they did occur. The negative side is that my cries for help were unheard and useless in getting me the help I needed. Yet, I survive; and I live.

I hate to admit it, but add me up as another girl's school statistic. As much as they preach to one attending an all girl's school about depression, getting help, and signs of suicide, pride prevents you from accepting the fact you are falling victim to such an evil; and not wanting to betray your closest friends prevents you from helping others that show the tell-tale signs. When I hear people speak of wanting to go back and relive their teenage years, I cringe. Teenage life is not easy, filled with confusing lessons of trust, friendship, peer pressure, and survival.

People act shocked by suicide, talking about how selfish, what were they thinking? One, it is a cry out for attention, you aren't thinking about others feelings. You are only thinking about your own overwhelming feelings and how you need another to notice yours. You need help, but you don't want to be a burden...hence the act. And thinking? You are thinking you can't do it anymore. You feel helpless, scared, lost, and confused. Your thinking is very muddled and desperate. You need help to sort your thoughts out, but that help never seems to come. You spiral so far down til there is no place left to go...you have nothing left but to beckon on the end.

This blog scares me more than any other. I'm worried about my family and friends' reactions to my writing and sharing the above. I'm not proud of my actions years ago, not that I should be, but I feel the need to put the above into words and so I can put another chapter behind me. The other side, of my family and friends' reactions I worry about, is embarrassing them, but it was my reality. I can't deny that or hide it any more. Hiding it will just let it happen to someone else...and I've already known too many who have taken their own. Why do I worry about embarrassing them? Shouldn't I be more embarrassed and ashamed of myself? or is it OK to accept this as my past since I no longer contemplate repeating, just remember. Remembering now and hopefully some day forgetting.

Coincidence has it that when I wrote most of this last night I was unaware that today there would be a dedication of a park bench and tree at Wilmore Park to a family friend who unexpectedly took his own life this past December.

Addiction and Alcoholism

...more words to add to my scary word list courtesy of my doc.

Unfortunately, PTSD puts many at risk for addiction. In my particular case, the addiction would be alcohol. Alcohol seems to be my rescue in the situations where I do not feel at ease or need release from my demons. The problem is I rarely stop with a drink or two. I imagine you are thinking, "Hey, you know there is a problem so take charge." If it were only that simple, I would love to.

At this point in time, I cannot even avoid a single drink if I'm out most nights. I usually succumb to at least a single shot, which, more times than not, leads to more. I am sure many of the sober or designated drivers out there understand; it is not much fun being the only sober one amongst a bunch of drunks. Also, if someone buys me a drink (which happens often), I'm afraid if I don't drink it I will offend/hurt someone. The drinking is becoming a viscious circle going from guilt, controlling anxiety, and trying to feel part of the fun to depression, feeling like crap, and being mad at myself for not having more control of my life. I guess that defines it right there.

Definitions
Alcoholism is a chronic and often progressive disease. Like many diseases, it has symptoms that include a strong need to drink despite negative consequences, such as serious job or health problems. Like many diseases, it has a generally predictable course and is influenced by both genetic (inherited) and environmental factors.

Addiction is the compulsion to repeat a behavior regardless of its consequences. Addiction describes a chronic pattern of behavior that continues despite the direct or indirect adverse consequences that result from engaging in the behavior. It is quite common for an addict to express the desire to stop the behavior, but find himself or herself unable to cease.