After months, and I really mean months, of not even the tiniest little cut, I broke down and cut my upper left arm all the way from shoulder bone to halfway my elbow.
It’s a long story, but to put a long story short:
I couldn’t take the pressure once more. My mother… She was as usual, her usual self. She said “Do you want to know why I don’t want to make things easy on you?”
Without waiting for answer she continued:
“Do you think someone looked after me when my father died? I was all on my own, my mother succumbed in her sadness, and do you think I wasn’t scared? That I wasn’t lonely and afraid and confused? That those psychiatrists don’t start about your “psychological suffering”, because you have no idea what that is, suffering. No idea! No one ever cared for me, no one ever made it easy on me. But I had to go on. I wasn’t a strong person, don’t you dare say that! Don’t you dare diminish the effort and amount of pain I felt by saying that. I was forced to be strong, I had no choice! Do you think I wouldn’t like to say “Oh, I’m so tired, I’m so sad, I’m disappointed in life, please take it away from me”? Well? There is nothing happy in my life. I don’t look forward to anything anymore. Not anything, and guess who’s to blame for that! If there was even a sparkle of happiness and stability in my life, you managed to wreck that fairly well, just as you’ve always done, ever since you were a little kid and you peed your pants again because you couldn’t stand me giving attention to your siblings. I know they say you shouldn’t be put in stressful situations, but hey, I’m only human! There’s only so much one can ask of someone else! I’m tired of you and your ‘trouble’. It’s time you get over it. Your problem is not in proportion to what actually happened.”
I tend to have a very filmic memory for conversations like that. I have a whole mental movie database like that, hundreds of different conversations that all say the same. I can recall them any time I want. Most of the time I recall them on times I don’t want it.
I am scared… in a way… And ashamed, because stopping to cut was kind of the only good thing that happened when I left the madhouse. I am also in doubt. I am weak. And a coward. I run away from my problems; every time my mother starts to talk to me I dissociate or run out of the house. “I can’t help it”, that’s easy to say. I am weak, that’s why I run. I thought about going back to the madhouse… but that would yet again be another escapade of running away… I don’t know what I have to do. I can’t blame anyone but me for my own shit…