Um, I guess I should say something. Sorry to be gone for a few days. I've had -- uh, a rough time of it.
To put things really bluntly, I went to church with my family for Mother's Day, and they were celebrating the graduation of a girl who had gone to high school with me, and youth group with me, and the first year of college in the same honors class as me. She's going back in for her master's degree after she gets married this summer, and I'm trying to pretend that making my mom pay for me to live outside of her house is some goddamn big event.
After craving it throughout the sermon, I drove straight home, somehow not crashing the car amidst my tears, and I got home. I broke the razor blade out of a disposable razor, and I -- I --
It's pretty bad. I'm fine, physically, anyway. But it bled a lot. It was my chest, between my bust and neck -- not near the neck, no. It'll show all the cuts if I wear a tank top though, and even a regular Tshirt has to be yanked back annoyingly or the tape and gauze shows. At first I had a red hanky secured over it, and now there's just a big rust-tone stain over half of that. That's scary.
What I did that was really stupid is put topical painkiller on the skin before cutting. *wince* I know, I know. I had scissors and they weren't sharp enough. I thought if I could numb the skin I could press hard and make it bleed. I had to bleed for some reason. I was craving my own blood. And then I got the razor and slashed. Don't ask for a count. A lot, okay. Yeah.
When I showed Sin (he'd asked why I was down) he grabbed my hand and this bizarre look entered his eyes. He was very angry for some reason and I honestly thought he was going to break my hand. He said I needed a beating -- oh God, I was scared. So now I can't tell him when I cut anymore, or he says he'll call the police, my mother, and my counselor. *shakes* So he'd let them lock me up, too. I don't want them to lock me up.
But how the hell did I start college on equal footing with this girl, and now she has not a care in the world except plotting the colour scheme for her marriage ceremony, and I have a total of nine fucking pathetic credits out of 48 attempted?! That's not a success story, people. That's a waste of space and resources. That's me. That's what I am.
I want to cut again, and I still have the razor, but I won't. I'll pour red nail polish on my wrist or something. Something that won't scar. Dear God, what was I thinking? The chest, going into summer? I'm an idiot.
I'm a 22-year-old idiot, by the way. I got birthday wishes from lots of people and I'm very happy about that, despite my own shortcomings. I feel loved even though I'm not happy with myself right now, and that helps a lot.
I'm also staying in the house for another while I try to take classes online. The idea is that I can get some credits and transfer them back into my old uni and work on the elusive degree. Nevermind that I should have it by now. I'm 22, dammit; I'm supposed to have at least a job by now, if not a degree! I'm supposed to just ignore this and pretend that everything's okay, that I don't suck? How?!
I got birthday pressies. Yay! Grandpa (my mom's father, the cool grandpa) drove up for my birthday, even through the rain (which he normally hates to drive through), and he stayed around all afternoon instead of his usual hour. That made me feel very special indeed. We ate Dairy Queen ice cream cake -- which I adore -- and I got gifts. Squirt got me The Matrix on VHS, in a special widescren edition. Whee! Mom got me a plush white cat, just like one I'd had years before that got ruined. It's very pretty and fluffy. The cat was wearing a lovely choker, which is around my own neck right now, and sitting on Myst III. Yayness. Now if I can just put off actually playing the game long enough to get something real done! Oh, and a lava lamp. I love those suckers. I plan to fall asleep watching the waxy bubbles rise and fall.
I'm not sure I want to live another year in this house with Sin. The next time I cut -- and I'm sure there will be a next time -- he'll call the cops if he finds out, and they'll send me to get locked up. I won't have any razors and I won't have any way out. God no. Please no.
I'm sorry for the spastic nature of this update. I wanted to do something cool, like write about moving my wardrobe and packing up my car, and then say "psyche! I'm staying in the house!" but my heart was not at all in that. I got more scared today than I can recall ever being offhand, and that's not something I could just gloss glibly over.
Memo to me: Next time, just one cut, no painkiller, and dab the rubbing alcohol on the cut right away. It feels like pouring acid directly into whatever important organ lies directly beneath the skin which is wounded. "Ow" is insufficient as an interjection of pain; "What the fuck am I doing?!?" is closer. Heh.
I should sleep. I have to be up tomorrow and ask around my old uni to figure out what the hell I do now about getting into classes that will transfer back in.
How the hell did I manage to screw up being eighteen and totally supported by my parents?
Irrationally, the thought that jumps into my head is, "I wish my daddy loved me." No amount of wishing will reconcile his idea of love and mine. I don't think my father particularly wanted children, and he didn't think he should have much to do with them -- us. A mother should care for the children, and the mother should be the one to nurture them. A father's task is to make money to support his family, no more. In his mind, he has expressed love for us by letting us have a Super Nintendo when we begged, and a car when I got my lisence and TJ turned 14 (legal driving age in South Dakota -- yes, we're weird that way).
But that isn't what I want from my father at all. I don't care about Super Nintendos or cars when I'm in this mopey mood. I just want my daddy to tell me that he loves me, and for him to say it not because I asked -- because then he'll just say it awkwardly and without feeling -- and not because he wants me to take his side against my mother. I want him to say it because he's glad that I'm his only daughter, because I'm special to him, because there's nobody in the world who could replace me in his affections.
My father doesn't operate like that. I haven't called lately, and that's all the reason he requires to have nothing to do with me. I'm just a girl, one of several offspring he fathered, and not terribly special. He's not overly demonstrative to my brothers, either. We're his genetic legacy to the world, and little else. I think he's a bit baffled as to why we would continue to badger him for attention after turning 18 and graduating high school (although that's a year away for Squirt). It simply isn't in him to deeply, passionately care, or so I suspect. I want -- no, crave -- intense attention from my father, and the poor man simply does not have that kind of energy to give me. He loves me in his own small way, and that isn't good enough for me.
I will not allow myself to look at the above paragraph and assume fault with me. It's not his fault either. Certainly he was never educated to be openly affectionate. Lord knows his own father was no paragon of virtue, nor a cuddlingly cloying father.
So what taught me to crave something I can't have? Jane Eyre, perhaps? Little Women? (Hah!) Any number of Victorian romance novels I've read, I suppose. Oh dear.
Maybe I should just wear my low-cut tank dress in the morning and display the slashes for the university officials to see, and my mother, who doesn't know that I do this to myself. I thought I was over this, but seeing that girl again -- she's so smart, and pretty, and loved. She's petite and blonde and tanned just enough but not too much and her clothes always hang just right on her taut frame. She wears name-brand clothing and shoes and accessories and her hair is always, always perfectly conditioned and hanging long and lovely against the 100% flawless skin of her face, and lips shaped without blemish.
Of course, I have scars that belong there. I put them there, before Sunday. On my ankle, on my thigh, a few light marks on my wrist, and now on my chest.
I can't think of any witty or upbeat way to end this. I'm sorry. Thanks for all the birthday wishes to everyone who sent them. I really appreciate it. It's what keeps me hanging on, some days.