Guilt

There is a reason I feel so guilty about Eva. I know it's a stupid reason, but it still plagues me.

The summer Eva killed herself, I wasn't there. I left just after school let out for leadership camp program (this was back when I was recommended for this type of thing) and wasn't home a week before she killed herself.

I wasn't there to see the preceding events. I don't know if there were actually warning signs. I should have cherished our last summer together, but I didn't know of the upcoming doom.

And that is why I blame myself for Eva's death.

Self and Safe Spaces

Is one ever truly 100% free to be his or herself? There are unspoken rules in the communities in which we participate and society at large that specify a limited range of behavior. Of course, it's perfectly fine (by me- someone out there probably disagrees) that burglary and murder are not considered socially acceptable, but I'm more thinking of stuff that is stigmatized rather than downright prohibited, and that people are therefore tempted to hide: mental illness, SI, being a Rick Astley fan, Muslim.

These attitudes of what is good or bad or is something to be embarrassed about are also intimately projected (often subconsciously) by our friends and family. Most people can list off one thing inside their heads that no one else on the planet knows about them. Some people may have more. I do, for one.

In a perfect world everyone would have at least one place where he or she could feel entirely safe. In reality, so long as there are other people involved in that space, someone will always pass judgement. Asking people to not express that judgement is the usual focus of someone trying to make a safe space. So is the only safe space inside one's own mind, because after all, what others see are projections of us, as there are aspects that are always publicly censored?

I try to make my blog a safe space by not accepting derogatory views of mental illness, but at the same time, I cannot be totally honest due to fear that someone may identify me, and, well... stigmatize me. Even with close friends, I withhold mention of thoughts I have or stuff that's happened simply because I know they'll never get it. When I am alone trying to fall asleep, I fear that all these different projections of me, the placeholders, have become so knotted and twisted together with my true self that even I don't know the difference.

And if I don't even know who I am, then what do I know about everything else?

"Cutting Is Fun," Says Teen

This interviewee would be one of those SIers who perpetuate the myth of "cutting is just a fashion statement" and that "cutters have no real problems." I think she pretty much speaks for herself.

Q: “At what age did you begin to injure yourself?”
A: “I started cutting at around 13 or 14 years old, around beginning of
junior high.”

Q: “What was the reason you began to hurt your body? Was there a
specific “breaking point” moment?”
A: “I began to do it out of fun. I thought it would be cool to start making
marks on my arms, around me there was like this fad of cutting. I don’t know
why, it was kind of entertaining to do it. I guess there wasn’t really a
breaking point, I just felt antsy and thought it would be a good reliever of
sorts.”

Q: “How did it feel when you would hurt yourself?”
A: “It would depend. Sometimes I felt a lot of pain and other times it felt
kind of…good“.

Q: “Why did you decide to cut your arms instead of seeking other means
for emotional relief?”
A: “I felt a kind of desperation and anxiety towards life in general. Once
I started making the marks I couldn’t stop, it turned into an addiction. I
thought “No one really cares, no one notices anyways”.

Q: “In what moments would you feel more compelled to injure
yourself?”
A: “Depended on the situation, if I was with some friends I’d do it for
fun. Other times it was because I felt sad or depressed or felt kind of
frantic.”

Q: “Have you stopped hurting yourself? If so, how long did you
last?”
A: “It’s over now, or at least I’m trying to end it. February was the last
time I did anything.

Q: “Do you still feel the need to injure your body?”
A: “Sometimes I do, it’s addicting, but then I stop myself before I let my
thoughts go any further.”

Q: “How were you able to overcome the problem?”
A: “I realized it was useless to do those things; the fun I thought was in
it is gone. I came to the realization that there was no need to cut my arms, its
pointless really, and it solves nothing.”

Q: “What advice would you give to others in a similar situation as
yourself?”
A: “Try to find other means for your escape, a healthier mean. You don’t
need to hurt yourself. If you feel the problem is too big, then find someone
whom you can trust to express what you’re feeling.”

To be honest, when it all boils down, a cutter is still a cutter, no matter the reasons that provoke him or her. To this particular person, it seems to be mostly a self-esteem/ resisting peer pressure thing, which ARE problems, of course. But I can't imagine how cutting oneself can be "entertaining" at all.

Drowned

At one point,
I was different.
I was just like you,
Or him,
Or her.
Or anyone else in this room.
At one point,
I could laugh;
I could cry;
I could feel.
And
The rest of you are still like that and
Will never go where I am now.

I know there’s something wrong;
I know this is no way to live.
But
I also know that
I’ve given up.

Why?

Let this grim darkness be a river
And let me be a twig within it.
The current is too strong;
I am powerless.
Why waste energy to even to try
To swim in futile attempts?
I float.
I drift.
I don’t really participate.

And it’s OK by me;
I’m still alive and breathing,
And that’s all
Anyone ever sees.
And
Life when I was different
Is beginning to fade,
Lose its color and poignancy.
I’m beginning to forget.

This is how I know I’ve been swept up
In the twisting current,
Numbed by fridged tempatures,
Never to dry out.

Flawed Love

That's an icky emo title, but it fits in with the theme of this post.

You probably have, by now, heard of To Write Love On Her Arms, or TWLOHA for short. And maybe you're wondering what the heck it is that they do. I've personally only seen a couple of the T-shirts around, but heard lots of gossip about certain celebrities donning the shirts as well. As the target audience, a teenaged, past and current self-injurer, I would like to think that I'd know about the alleged helpful and life-saving sense of community, but I've never even come close to feeling the love. Poking around the website, all I see are those darned T-shirts.

OK. They sell clothing to raise awareness of self-harm. Using people as moving billboards is a well-known tactic. But surely they do something else as well? Sporting a shirt with "To Write Love On Her Arms" or "Love is the Movement" on it is vague, and doesn't directly reference self-injury at all. A lot of people probably assume it is an indie band and go on their merry way. I would think TWLOHA would make an effort to distribute accurate information about self-harm, depression, and substance abuse, and to provide strong support and assistance to those in need of it.

Um, no. Best I an tell, 25% of the revenue generated from selling this merchandise is donated to other organizations such as Hopeline, Teen Challenge, and Self Abuse Finally Ends (SAFE). If I wanted, I could donate directly to those organizations and they'd get 100%. TWLOHA seems to be less of a mission in its own right than a system to sell teens T-shirts under the impression that they're spreading the love and saving the world, when really, who the heck knows where most of the funds go. It's kind of like the kids at my school who participated in the LGBT Day Of Silence and then went right back to using "gay" as a synonym of "stupid" the next day. Pretending to be concerned about social issues is cool, you know. And buying a T-shirt is not activism.

So anyway, today I ran across a thread on PostSecret Community discussing TWLOHA and whether it's bullshit or not. Sure it's eleven pages, but it's definitely interesting. (xlimepops is a prick- she degrades other users as being too young to understand how a not-for-profit business functions, but she is 17 and apparently knows all. Just had to let that out.)

Basically, almost everyone in the thread agrees that TWLOHA is flawed in some way. However, some people take no issue with there being flaws and are perfectly content to leave them in there because it still managed to help them and the unspecified tons of others.

Why should we not try and get rid of the flaws to result is something that actually works (or works better)? Why should we not strive to make a more perfect situation for the mission? If one really feels that Love is the Movement, then shouldn't they try and make the so-called love beneficial?

I won't be buying T-shirts anytime soon.

Trip

On the loose to climb a mountain

On the loose where I am free

On the loose to live my life

The way I think my life should be

For I only have a moment

And a world world yet to see

I'll be looking for tomorrow

On the loose



Remembering once-upon-a-time:

Anything is possible;

Life tilts in rhyme.

Spinning, whirling, dancing;

Blurry images fly past;

A multitude of images colliding.

I am melting, pooling,

One with the world.

Liquid existence, slowly cooling,

Space, time, the whole continuum,

Starting, stopping, loosing joint.

Who am I? Where did I come from?



We were all young once.

The human race has yet to

Scratch the sands of time.

Little me, only a fleck of dust

In the great big universe.

Our ancestors were born.

They lived, and they died.

I was born, I live, and

I ultimately will die.

I think I know

Where I am from,

But I do not know

To where I am going.

And I can't find out,

Little helpless me.



It's so easy to give in,

Gentle tugging of a stronger flow

Lapping at your ankles.

Is to live only to drift?



Sometimes I wonder

Amongst rolling hills and starry skies

Why must we all respire in a common way?

I met a little girl once

Very precocious

She could tell you anything

Or at the very least

Tell you what she thought to be true

Self-assuredly right

(Her name was Mariah)

Here I am much older

And I know absolutely nothing

But isn't it

"He who is the wisest knows nothing"?

Can I forget?



dancing through the air

ribbons of steam

rising

like pale whispering spirits

vaporous tendrils twisting

rising

resurrected thoughts

finally escaped for good

rising

Depression Perception

Dear Insensitive Lady in the Doctor's Waiting Room,

My name is Mariah and I live with depression. But I am not telling you this because it defines me. I define myself; I'm not a definition of a clinical illness.

This depression, although a part of me, is not my most obvious feature under most circumstances. Most people do not accurately label me as depressed, just emo or angsty. Do I prefer this? Not really. But as mental illness has such a negative concoction to it in today's society, it's safer.

I wish I could tell everyone the truth about my struggles. If that were within the scope of logic, though, writings like these would not be necessary. The mentally ill, in many cases, are one of the last groups it's acceptable to ridicule in polite society. Someone you are close to probably lives with a mental illness and have not told you in fear. And so I do my best to hide the depression the best I can.

So what actually do I let define me? I am seventeen years old and female, to begin the list. I love listening to almost all genres of music, and I hate playing sports. I identify as atheist. My favorite books are usually science-fiction, although I'm typically not so thrilled about sci-fi movies. I do a lot of personal writing. I spend a lot of time on the Internet, but not on social-networking sites. Though few, I treasure the friends I have. Of course there's plenty vague and undefined about me as well- over the last few years my identity has constantly been shifting.

Should I define you as a mother, because you are pregnant? Being a mother is only part (quite literally at the moment) of who you are, and mothers come in all shapes and forms. Should I only see you as a mother and not a football fan or chemical engineer in addition? No, that would be very silly of me, in much the same way that it was very silly of you to think that depression is what rules me. It is not, in the slightest.

Hopefully I have led you to realize the fault in this definition thinking.

Sincerely,

Mariah

On Mental Disability