It's been three years and a day since Eva died. As another year goes by, I can't help but feel that it's too long to still be hung up on this- almost 1/6 of my entire life so far.
So what did I do yestderday?
Volunteered at the rape crisis center. This was intentional.
August 17, 2009
August 13, 2009
Cutting on the Today Show
Watch a medical analysist talk about SI while Seventeen magazine editor sits awkwardly to the side.
I don't think Dr. Snyderman's analysis is the primary factor in most cases. Almost everyone who cuts that I've met experiences self-loathing to various degrees, but we consist of more than our bodies. Inside our minds, we hate ourselves for not being good enough; for always being wrong; for being useless; for not being able to cope with stuff beyond our control. Our bodies are the physical holders of our minds, and so we cut them, because it's the easiest outlet to ourselves. Looking like a model on the cover of Seventeen is not, nor ever was, a goal of every SI-ing teenage girl. Some girls may feel the say Dr. Snyderman describes, but cutting can't be obliviated with stickers on all Photoshopped pictures (an idea I completely support) or an outright airbrushing ban.
It bothers me that even with this serious topic all girls are typecasted to shallow, pretty, little things.
I don't think Dr. Snyderman's analysis is the primary factor in most cases. Almost everyone who cuts that I've met experiences self-loathing to various degrees, but we consist of more than our bodies. Inside our minds, we hate ourselves for not being good enough; for always being wrong; for being useless; for not being able to cope with stuff beyond our control. Our bodies are the physical holders of our minds, and so we cut them, because it's the easiest outlet to ourselves. Looking like a model on the cover of Seventeen is not, nor ever was, a goal of every SI-ing teenage girl. Some girls may feel the say Dr. Snyderman describes, but cutting can't be obliviated with stickers on all Photoshopped pictures (an idea I completely support) or an outright airbrushing ban.
It bothers me that even with this serious topic all girls are typecasted to shallow, pretty, little things.
August 9, 2009
Maybe
Maybe someday I'll be able to put all this behind me.
Maybe someday I'll walk into a roomful of strangers confidently wearing an outfit that doesn't cover me ankles to wrists. Maybe I'll approach someone and introduce myself and not feel like I'm being scrutinized for fine flaws which, when pressured, cause me to snap. I won't cower and run away.
Maybe someday I'll visit Eva's mom up in Canada. Maybe I'll bring her Eva's t-shirt and CD I found when I was cleaning out my closet. Maybe I'll take her out to lunch and we'll have a long chat, and most probably cry. If it's been nearly three years of hell for me, I cannot imagine what they've been like for her.
Maybe someday I'll stand up on a podium in front of hundreds of people and say, "My name is Mariah and I live with depression," and not be jeered offstage. I'll look the audience in the eye and drive my points home. Maybe I'll change the life of someone out there who thinks that there is no way to live with their depression. Maybe I'll find the courage to tell everyone that they have it all wrong; that I am, for the most part, a functioning, feeling, human being, and that I deserve to be treated as such.
But, see, the problem with all this is that it's maybe someday and not now. I can't go to a party or visit Ms. Smythe or give a speech any more than I can walk on Mars. Lethargic at the present, I think I can only dream about the future, but I know I can make it happen, if I could find the energy to motivate myself. And, of course, that is precisely what I lack. Sometimes, just wanting it is nowhere near enough.
Maybe I'll try a little harder...
Maybe someday I'll walk into a roomful of strangers confidently wearing an outfit that doesn't cover me ankles to wrists. Maybe I'll approach someone and introduce myself and not feel like I'm being scrutinized for fine flaws which, when pressured, cause me to snap. I won't cower and run away.
Maybe someday I'll visit Eva's mom up in Canada. Maybe I'll bring her Eva's t-shirt and CD I found when I was cleaning out my closet. Maybe I'll take her out to lunch and we'll have a long chat, and most probably cry. If it's been nearly three years of hell for me, I cannot imagine what they've been like for her.
Maybe someday I'll stand up on a podium in front of hundreds of people and say, "My name is Mariah and I live with depression," and not be jeered offstage. I'll look the audience in the eye and drive my points home. Maybe I'll change the life of someone out there who thinks that there is no way to live with their depression. Maybe I'll find the courage to tell everyone that they have it all wrong; that I am, for the most part, a functioning, feeling, human being, and that I deserve to be treated as such.
But, see, the problem with all this is that it's maybe someday and not now. I can't go to a party or visit Ms. Smythe or give a speech any more than I can walk on Mars. Lethargic at the present, I think I can only dream about the future, but I know I can make it happen, if I could find the energy to motivate myself. And, of course, that is precisely what I lack. Sometimes, just wanting it is nowhere near enough.
Maybe I'll try a little harder...
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