Ruminations and Rumblings

[kyra_ojosverdes]

This is an entry which would be a poem. Unable to decide between prose and form, it chose neither, and will simply be what it is not.

Shmuel and I were earlier, talking, in that never-time of instant messages and flat yellow smiles, of punishment and pain. At times it seems life is an intricate dance between and around those two sunset pillars.

Wisdom, paraphrased, its source (of course) the Swensen: "You don't have to worry about some phantom abuser coming out of the walls and kicking your ass if you're always beating him to the punch by bagging on yourself."

Pedestals
begging to be toppled rise
in poses of varied stability
near an angry ocean.

The voices in one's head. The abuser, the victim, the non-protecting bystander (get up dear, or he'll hit you again). The shrieking bloody-clawed harpy, the bleating pitiful sheep, the distantly observant chorus. A show played out a hundred times each day in each of six billion minds. We rarely hear the screaming.

The police state of childhood remains within, amidst the bloody ribbons, once our innocence. The inescapable Gaze becomes our own, and the mounting mayhem requires no outside knives.

"Most women have not even been able to touch
this anger except to drive it inward like a
rusted nail."
-- Adrienne Rich

Because if we are good enough, if we can ever just be good enough, we have been Promised so many times it will be Okay. It is not Okay. And we are not Good Enough. The bystander looks on as the abuser releases a scream of rage because we've dared to meet its eyes. For a moment we thought to rise above the victimhood, to seek the butterfly of hope fluttering just outside our reach. The merciless grinding black bootheel came down quickly on all our hands, did it not, crushing them against the concrete of our unyielding expectations. Of course, of course. We know our places, we children.

We all do things that aren't good for us and that may harm us. We also do things that inflict injury but that are primarily intended for other purposes. Some self-harm is culturally sanctioned, while other types are seen as pathological. Where does one draw lines?
-- Deb Martinson

Returning to an addiction is comforting on at least three levels. (I haven't.)

One. That dank cave, that squalid hovel, is one we've known. It has kept us warm through part storms, and the rats within were better than the steely slashing winds outside. Or at least that's how it looks as memory's rays are bent by the gravity of emotional need. Addiction is the devil we know.

Two. If it were not rewarding, it would not be addictive. Whether substance or behavior, it has a reinforcer which outweighs, at least at times, the costs of addiction. For a moment of undetermined duration, returning is bliss.

Three. We know our places, we children. The foamy-mouthed harpy can stop ripping at our backs with her razor-hook claws now. We've proven the abuser right. We were never going to amount to anything anyway. So long as we wallow in our misery, self-flagellating then bathing the wounds with the mud of our self-loathing, the abuser is content to watch with satisfaction. It may even grant us a favor or two, in reward for our humilty and abasement. We are not required to reach or grow, indeed it is forbidden us. Why not accept our lot in life? It is easier.

Round here we're carving out our names
Round here we all look the same
Round here we talk just like lions
But we sacrifice like lambs
Round here she's slipping through my hands
Sleeping children better run like the wind
out of the lightning dream
Mama's little baby better get herself in
out of the lightning
She says It's only in my head
She says Shhh I know it's only in my head
But the girl in car in the parking lot
says "Man you should try to take a shot
can't you see my walls are crumbling?"
Then she looks up at the building
and says she's thinking of jumping
She says she's tired of life
she must be tired of something
-- Counting Crows, "'Round Here"

I cut myself with razors because the pain in my chest is unbearable. Almost anything can set me off. Most of all, the desire to injure myself comes when I feel like I have failed at something or when I feel as though someone close to me is going to leave me. The need for intimacy in my life is great and although I try to keep everyone at arm's length, when I do let someone in I feel as though I will be hurt. Cutting relieves the pain that nothing else can take away.
-- female, 32, 17 years of self-injurious behavior, MSW

I like the thought that it is ME causing the pain for once, not someone else.
-- female, 14, <1 year of self-injurious behavior, 9th grade

Because it helps me to stop all the turmoil inside my head. I also think that I deserve to hurt because I'm such a horrible person. I don't know why I feel like this, but I do.
-- female, age 34, 2.5 years of self-injurious behavior, teacher

I do not know why I cut, but it scares the hell out of me. Most of the time I am feeling very rejected or angry or I am seething with self-hatred. I do not cut for attention or to create dramatics. When I engage in this behavior, it is always alone and I have never told anyone about it.
-- female, age 33, self-injurious behavior since teens, Ph.D.

I feel like there's something terrible inside me that I have to get out any way that I can. I think that's part of the reason why I have to bleed. Afterwards I feel cleansed. I feel like whatever was crushing me before has been removed. I feel calm and in control.
-- male, age 20, 2 years of self-injurious behavior, college sophomore

-- all quotes after the song lyrics are from http://www.palace.net/~llama/psych/injury.html

Comments

compilations

[kagomeshuko.livejournal.com]

I'm pretty sure that there is a literary name for something like that, but I can't pinpoint it at the moment. My brain is not completely functioning tonight.

Anyway, I love compilations like that. I think they bring a lot of truth out into the open.

Stein Auf!
Bridget

It's the start of something

[redrita.livejournal.com]

I think this is the start of an article, or even a book. Maybe something you're supposed to do in this life -- teaching others the wisdom you have gained by experience and perception. Drag something out into the open.

Someday

[kyra-ojosverdes.livejournal.com]

.. for now, I'm collecting what I write. Sometime later, I'll put it in order and make it make a bit more sense... and yeah, I think someday I'll publish.

Love you!