05/31/2012

I’ve begun to think that being a self-injurer is like being an alcoholic.  Always in recovery, but never recovered.

I can’t really speak from my own experiences, because the longest I’ve ever been “recovered” is six weeks, but I’ve been reading forums for awhile.  There are so many posts about, “Been SI free for (amount of time), slipped up.”  Sometimes that amount of time is reaching into years.  I can’t even imagine that.

I don’t really keep track, so I don’t feel as shitty when I fuck up.  The six weeks mentioned about is a rough estimate.  That’s about how long half of the summer semester was, and I remember managing to get all the way through my spring classes that year without harming.  That was 2006, I think, although it might have been 2007.

I think I made it less than four weeks in 2003, and that’s when I was in therapy.

I don’t think my therapist was a particularly good match for me.  I’ve been thinking about it.  I’ve largely discounted the idea of therapy as helpful, based on how completely worthless the time I spent with her was.  It may be that she was just immensely unhelpful, although I find it hard to imagine that any therapist would be.

The truth is, people like me don’t belong in therapy.  I’m manipulative and I lie so easily.  So naturally.  I clearly don’t want help, or to get “better,” so I shouldn’t waste anyone’s time.

I’m not really sure how to not lie, though, and that’s a challenge.  People are so uninterested in, or disgusted by, the truth that I cannot say it.

I destroyed my paper journals.  I had one that I used when I was in therapy, which I brought with me to my appointments.  I had another one that I wrote in from 2007-2010.  They had to go.  I can’t have paper evidence lying around of how fucking crazy I am.  I wrote one journal entry in 2004 in blood.  I had a pen that you dipped in ink to write.  So I used my blood for ink.  It wasn’t a particularly good one—too viscous.  But that shit is crazy.

The journal from 2007-2010 was so fucking busted up from all the times I threw it across the room.  I would start writing and end up pissed off and how fucking useless I am. 

Sometimes I throw things when I’m angry. 

I used to attack people when I was angry.  That wasn’t cool, though, and like any good little woman I had to learn to turn my anger inwards. 

I bent over backwards to become “the better person,” and it’s really fucking sad.  There’s no prize for it, you know. 

There’s no particular point to any of this.  It’s just the same old shit. 

After I hurt myself I think, “what’s the point of not hurting myself?  At this point, I’ve already fucked it up.”  I’m like a binge self-harmer.  Periods of being good, periods of breaking myself.  The scabs on my thighs and bruises on my wrists will attest to that.  Soon I will be good again. 

But, hey, I’ve managed to avoid eating everything in sight, and I’ve been exercising every day.  The theory of ego depletion says that something’s gotta give.  You can’t be all good all the time.  It’s tiring.

I’m tired.