cutting

It happened to me.

He says he’ll leave me if I cut my hair.
So I wear it longer on the days I see him.
When all I do is hide behind a curtain of hair to hide every scar I am feeling.

He doesn’t like it when I wear that color. It reminds him of her. So he bans me from wearing it in order to please him. I don’t hesitate. I don’t say no. I just do as I am told. To avoid an argument. To avoid the words that he holds still and strongly behind his tongue.

I am afraid to speak at times. The outcome outweighs the lasting effects of anything I could ever say. I don’t know myself at times. I was a smart girl. I was a strong girl. Now I am letting someone else dictate my thoughts and actions.

I don’t know who I am anymore, I tell myself.
I am not me without you, I say out loud.

It’s not the fists I am afraid of. It’s this unseen power a person can hold over you with the mountain of words that follow. How easy it is to say how you feel and mean what you say. How easy it is to cut down a person without giving it a second thought.

I found myself saying that I’d wish he’d hit me. Something to show the world of the vile person he was. Create the villain among the sinners. All they see is my reactions to every one of his actions. All they see is my skin burning red and my tongue lashing out at everyone that defies me. All they see is my anger and his calm demeanor. Because he was always too cool and too good of a person to hurt people. He was always the cool guy in his nice kicks. He couldn’t hurt a fly they’d tell me. How I wish he’d hit me just to prove them wrong. Just to show them that I was right and they were wrong. Then all these feelings would be real not under the surface.

People always say “That would never happen to me”. I hate that. As they see a girl cover her face or hear a story of a girl who just couldn’t take it anymore. They don’t know what it’s like. They don’t know what it’s like to hide from your friends and family. To pretend your okay when your whole world is falling apart. How it feels to cut your arm in places because the words were too big of a burden to keep to yourself. So you punish yourself for being the sad expectation of who he wanted.

I was the dead weight he refused to carry, he’d often said. If I was skin and bones he would love me more. Hold me tighter. I believed him. I was stupid and I believed him.

I used to say “It would never happen to me“. That I would be one of the lucky ones to fight until my hands were red and my throat was raw. They don’t know that sometimes when a man loves too much they just ignore you. Tell you how worthless you are. How every time they see you it makes them sick. They don’t know how sometimes it’s more than physical. That words have a way of leaving bruises and scars on every inch of your skin. But they’ll never see it. They’ll never know.

They’ll never know that the reason you stopped dating is that you hear his voice in the back of your mind. That nobody will want you after he has had you. That nobody will ever love you as much as he had loved you.

Nobody.

It would never happen to me, they’d say.

But it happened to me.

Tracy, CA. 2015
#ThisishowIletgo

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8/31/2015 – Day Seventeen.

I have a problem with my wrists. It’s something that I can’t exactly figure out. I stare at my wrists more than humanly possible, as if they are going to change in appearance or size. I memorize the veins and how visually transparent they seem against my skin. I feel the cracks in the bones and how phantom the pains from the past can come knocking. Sometimes they ache when they bend, but most of the time I am making something out of completely nothing.

Through the years, I see scars that were once scabs on my skin healing. Understanding from salt of words that never allowed themselves to heal properly. I remember wanting to tattoo sleeves on my arms to hide all the bruised scars, so nobody would find them. Where not even I could place the tiny lines that haunt my skin. Lines that no longer exist to the naked eye but always exist to me. I could tie a thousand ribbons on my wrist to hide from all this pain. I could paint a thousand words and sayings to take this grief from forming. I could lie to a million people that look toward my skin as a badge of honor. Some days it feels like a loss instead of an honor. I can’t help but feel guilty that I seem to always do this to myself.

Only I know my scars secrets. I know its whispers that call on me to remember things long forgotten. All the stories that come forth every time a new scar forms. I am better than this. I am stronger than these scabs that turn to scars and leave my stories on my wrists. Yet, I sit here thinking of stupid shit I should have forgiven myself long ago. I forgive myself countless times, but just muster the courage to forget.

Because I never forget.

Hurt.

Scars have a way of reminding us of who we used to be. The more I glance upon my skin, the more my scars find a way to haunt me. Telling me stories of what being broken does to harm a person, more than allowing them to heal. My scars were always my battle wounds of the past, just another story to keep to myself. One day this will all disappear, I’ll find new skin to paint over the old. Isn’t that all we really want? Just a clean slate to wash over all our prior mistakes. Some days I am ready to let go of the past, other days I can’t help but think of every single detail.

Who am I, without my broken past of broken promises. Who am I, without all the chaos and sadness that surrounds me. Who am I, in the light that changes the moment the dark hits me. Most days I am just trying to keep this broken corpse together and other days I can’t wait to tear it apart. Self destructing is in my nature, it’s something I can’t escape from. I can fool everyone but I can’t seem to fool myself. Maybe all I need is to dig myself a little deeper in the hurt and cut out the pain. Get rid of all the self destructive desires and find a way to let in the good. Because everything I am feeling is bad and all I could think about is how to hurt myself and make myself bleed.

All I have left are the scars that remind me of every tragic moment in my life. Every last broken hurtful piece of flesh that bleed through every cut. Some days I can still feel it. They are memories that no matter how you suppress them, they never truly go away. Maybe the madness never truly goes away, we all just find ways to pretend we are okay. Are we ever truly okay? Can we ever just forget the past of broken promises and give way to a peaceful future? Perhaps. Or then again there’s no such thing as a peaceful future because we are so self consumed in our past prior mistakes. It doesn’t matter how many times I wrap myself up with new skin and promises of new beginnings, I find myself picking at the scabs of cuts that should have already healed.

Why do I do that to myself? Why am I so focused on the pain and fixated on the amount of hurt I put myself through?

Days I wish I could forgive myself. Forgive every hurtful dark thing I could think about. Maybe then my heart could feel whole again. Maybe then my heart would find a way to love again. But the more I dwell the more I can’t. I can’t forgive myself when the scars are the constant reminders of my mistakes. The scars find a way to open themselves up and bleed out every terrible thing I can think about. Its the scars that keep me thinking of the darkness when I should be searching for the light.

All I want is to hurt and to continue in this pain. Watch my body self destruct and be rid of this vessel and find some peace of mind. Take all my broken pieces and find some way toward the light. This dark is to heavy and the scars are too. Who knows where the future will lead me but I know this present is persistent to this hurt. Scratch, cut, and bleed my way through. Its after all the blood has drained that the hurt will go away. Only then would I find peace.

Only then I will find the light.

7/13/2007