Wednesday August 27, 2014
in the morning my instructor asks me to come with her as she’s hanging pictures on the walls in the empty hall, and after she’s laughed at my coughs, “oh, your poor little ebola!” (lol what), and at our looking at the pictures with an arm around my shoulders, she gets to business: she says she was approached by someone yesterday who was worried about me and had expressed fear over my not-so-well-veiled “suicide hints”. I correctly guess who we’re talking of (even though my instructor doesn’t verify my guess because it’d break her confidentiality aura and I respect that a lot) and tell her I told this girl the whole thing had passed, and I express frustration as I explain how I should have lied, a little white lie would have been totally fine here, make the situation seem less serious… my instructor then asks me how I’m doing, whether I’m doing better now. I start shuffling off, away from the room, as I say bashfully that I think I’m just holding it closer to myself, that people think I’m doing better but actually I’m just hiding the hurt better. it’s a tense, awkward situation and I inhale air hungrily as I walk into the other rooms.
I print a bunch of my Tumblr things for my journal again, and pick two entries into a separate pile; the one about the suicide prevention package, and the one titled “—and Hell is a place on earth, in my head.”. as my instructor goes past, I fling the pile out to her with no comment, and she takes it with no comment either. I’m not sure if it’s a good thing that we’ve gone past the need to say anything about my communication method, how it’s just presumed by both parties that if I stick a pile of print-outs into her hands, she’ll read them. I hope I evolve past this, once it becomes easier to open up to people. for now I’m still stuck at the stage where I can’t even say the worst words out loud, so it’s helpful to be able to reach out with a wordless gesture, the papers speaking for me. writing is easier for me but I’m partial to the emotional contact and context of speaking.
not much time goes past before I grow anxious she’s going to feel bad about my text, that I’m burdening her again and that she’ll be freaked out by how much I need her. I say half-formed words which don’t make any sense at all and try to pull the papers away from her. she makes a tutting sound and clings to them, saying she’s “just started getting into it!” so I let out a nervous little laughter and let it be. I stay close by, anyway. I don’t know what it is with the hovering; as if my proximity and tangible nervousness could or even would somehow alter the emotions of the reader. blah.
we have a small writing group, just me and her and one other workshop girl, the one worried about me, and we spend a little time telling the other girl not to worry about me - I feel shitty because I have an obsession to answer all questions asked from me, I should’ve just said something light and happy and then shuffled off the day before; I don’t want anyone to worry for me, I can’t lie and say I’m alright or that I don’t want to die, but I don’t want anyone to feel bad on any level because of that. when we get that out of the way, I write my poems into my writings binder, the other girl reads through her material for our publication and my instructor continues with my Tumblr texts. again and again I find my eyes wandering off my own pages to the prints in my instructor’s hands - I try to see where she is, how she’s reacting to it… the other girl eyes the pages with dejected curiosity and I have an overwhelming urge to throw gasoline on the papers and light them up: DO NOT READ. not her, not my instructor. the anonymity of internet feels safe and easy compared to this, and on top of all the private shit phrased in combinations of 26( - 29) letters, both entries discuss my instructor a lot and I keep wanting to underline how it’s just one part of me; an important, big, new part that’s awoken because of all the caring and hug therapy, because of “the atmosphere of loving kindness and somewhat unconditional acceptance”, but still just one part of a complex, dynamic person.
we finish and we girls shuffle off, although I keep returning to the empty hall to hover near my prints and their precious reader, who appears amused at the pitter-patter of my feet. I happen to come close again just as she finishes reading the texts, and she pushes her chair away from the table, at an angle from it, and opens her arms and pulls me close. I struggle against it, but only nominally; in reality I’ve missed being close, being held. every day I miss it, every hour that I am not hugged I miss it. later I’ll have an image in my head of me saying no, she can’t take my weight, the chair can’t take us both, and at the same time practically pushing myself into her lap as she embraces me. lol. just yesterday I told her how I remember the time she took me to sit on her lap and I had to run away after a short while because it was making me cry, and how it’s conflicted to crave attention and emotional+physical closeness and intimacy and yet be completely intimidated by it when it happens. and now she’s holding me in her arms like a little child and I feel very raw and uncovered. but still safe, oddly enough. insecure and nervous, but safe.
"oh, Noora, listen, you…" she says with a kind laughter, and I exclaim, my shoulders hitching up in a manifestation of my inner panic and turmoil, "I don’t know if I WANT to listen to this…!"
she responds with a chuckle and says that maybe she doesn’t even know how to say what she wants to say, but…
I’m quick to point out, flustered by all this, at the ‘you’s in my text and tell her “that’s… that’s…” and I whisper a name, not hers, and she says she knows that, and her voice, so kind and soft and gentle and compassionately sad for me, makes me feel punched in my lungs. I swallow tears and keep my eyes fixed on one of the “I miss you”s, and she tells me I would be a great loss if I died. there’s a hollow little point inside me that reminds me that the person whose name I just uttered thinks quite the opposite, but I just continue staring at my papers even though my eyes are too wet for me to see anything of them.
we talk about how I feel I get so much joy and love and companionship from other people, her included, and it comes so naturally to them, and I have nothing like that to give myself. she doesn’t agree with me, says I give her a lot by being there and letting her hug me (haha, what a way to phrase it - it’s true she’s the one hugging but it’s me who appears out of nowhere and gets stuck to her side like I’m recharging myself or something), and then she points to my texts and says I write well, that it’s a pleasure to read my texts (not a pleasure pleasure, but you know); that the content is heavy, but the writing…
and I don’t know how to respond properly so I just bite my lips and almost look at her in the face with my moist eyes and after I jump off her lap I talk fast and with feverish hand movements and euphemisms, and my voice drops and there’s a pregnant pause every time a certain girl’s name should be mentioned. she says with feeling that no one should be allowed to judge or condemn someone else’s level of yearning, no one should diminish the value of my missing that girl, no one should shrug and go “sometimes shitty things happen” because while it’s true, it undermines the hell I’m currently experiencing and I have a right to be sad and miss her. I’m grateful as fuck for everything but I’m so unaccustomed to it all that I feel extremely awkward. (a thing I mentioned as she was reading my texts was my habit of being very black and white in writing: everything is very this or very that. just look at all my adjectives! “extremely”, “horribly”, “very”… they’re true and I do feel an awful lot and very intensely, trust me, it’s a wave you drown into, but it does stick out a little, particularly when normal people are reading.)
after lunch my instructor’s making coffee and I hover close, once again, and we hug and I say I had something to say to her but I can’t remember what, but that maybe it was just “thank you”. she replies the same way she always does, says thank you right back. I still don’t know what she’s thanking me for.
we then have a meeting with everyone sitting in a circle, and we go round talking about what a past workshop attendant’s recent suicide evoked in us. I have a lot I feel and want to say, but when the people right before me start crying, I get upset and suddenly all I can think of is Robin Williams, that talk I had with my instructor following his death and my own little medical mishap. when my turn comes I croak out a quiet “I don’t really have anything to say right now…” I’m angered when someone says they think suicide is selfish, even though I also respect and enjoy the fact that everyone is free to say how they feel - and luckily for me someone else speaks up about how suicide may be considered selfish, but it’s also selfish to expect people to suffer and endure enormous amounts of pain if they don’t want to carry it anymore. it’s hard for me to focus, though: all I can think of is my own recent attempt and how my instructor reacted to it, and how they would have kept a similar meeting thing round for me, then, and stubborn tears roll down my cheeks and I wipe them off so angrily I grimace. I WILL NOT CRY DAMMIT. I hand out handkerchiefs and hold hands and pet them comfortingly, and it’s a struggle to swallow.
at some point in the afternoon, out of nowhere I ask my instructor if ebola isn’t a bleeding disease, and she laughs she really needs to watch what she says to me. I join in, laughing that’s not why I ask, but later I’ll come to the conclusion that actually yes, it’d be kind of nice if people had the resources to do that because I clearly take everything I’m told as the gospel truth. if you tell me I’m a clingy person, I’ll start thinking of that at all possible times with all the people I come into any kind of contact with. if you tell me I think too much, I’ll be aware of it for ever and ever. it’s like my mind has no source critique skills at all - every word that can be used as a label, especially a negative one, will be glued to my head. it’s quite a thick pile by now and I’m not even aware of most of them being labels so it’s hard to shrug them off…
at the end of the day we sing to a trainee instructor who’s off to school, and it makes me chuckle in amusement that our practically chain-smoking boss starts coughing in the middle of the second-last line. it feels just right; that’s the kind of cute, familiar thing that gives comfort to life. I also remember what it was I meant to tell my instructor at coffee, so when we go round telling others what good things we’ll do to ourselves today, I mention it as a thing I’m going to do right away so I won’t feel bad about it for the rest of the evening. after the round and see-you-tomorrows my instructor, who sits next to me like she almost always does these days because apparently there’s one person in this world who lets me be co-dependent on her, jumps up and turns to me with pizazz and fingers gun-pointing at me, and I jolt and am momentarily shocked into forgetting my business once again. I mock-moan about it as we walk into the back room, lol.
I splutter my business out, a stuttering semi-incoherent bubbling of worry about burdening her and freaking her out. she tells me we’ll have to start testing it out, this is a test for it, and I almost cry in emotional anguish that nooo, then they’ll all leave, and she hugs me close and says it’s a test so I can see that they’re staying, and again I get so emotional I have to pull apart and move on with my business or I’ll drown in it. I mention several times how the person I miss left me with bloodshot trauma about people thinking the things I tell them are everything I have in me (when that’s so far from the truth and I don’t know how to express it); that I speak of her a lot but I do have a lot of other things going on in my life, these are just the ones I saw fit to discuss with her or at least let her know about… she cuts into my flustered, frantic babbling with a soothing remark about how I remember how she threw away her journals exactly because she worried the image they gave of her to any possible readers was so narrow and one-sided, so she understands my situation and my worry and the fact that there is more to me than what a few texts show. she puts her hand on my back as she says this, and I almost grow two inches shorter with relief flushing through me. she also says she enjoys reading my texts because it allows her to get into my head, it helps her understand me more and better, and that if this is the method for us to do so then we’ll carry on with it for now.
at home it makes me laugh to remember the advice “your mind is a dangerous place, don’t go there alone at night.”at least I don’t have to go there alone anymore. it’s… it’s so much more than I ever knew to wish for. thank God for amazing lovely people like my instructor.
Thursday August 28, 2014
the morning is alright enough - my word of the day is openness, lol - , although I feel very fragile at all times. it’s like I’m aware of it, of how little is needed to tip me over the edge into an abyss of sharp edges and darkness. at one point I err into thinking I may be able to survive the day if the person I miss is a no-show. she isn’t, and my heart goes into a nervous arrhythmic jitter and my thoughts scatter all around like a house of cards caving in, but I remain intact for the time being.
we listen to the sound group’s production and it’s all dandy until a spoken-word part about seeing the speaker as they are and not coloured by one’s interpretations and mental images makes me almost start crying. it fits so well into all this recent shit! I could have spoken those words. I manage to blink the tears back off and am grateful for it, and ask for a copy of the quotation for myself.
abandon all hope, ye who enter here, though, because the person whose absence is a catalyst to my deathly depression lets me know she has my movie and I swear I jolt with fright when she addresses me, even though she’s courteous. I escape into a corridor with my coffee mug and stare up at the ceiling to stop the tears from overflowing, and while I’m gone she places my movie on top of my mess of strings, and I take it to my box with a heavy feeling in my chest. as I come back from my box, my instructor walks ahead of me, and I hurry to her because I really need a hug right now and I grab her arm, and she turns towards me, and I try to go for a hug but somewhere in those few centimetres I crumble and out comes a miserable sob and I press my head into her shoulder and struggle to hold it in. I can’t. I can’t hold it in because I’m drowning. she pulls me to her and then walks me, still holding me close, further down the corridor so we won’t be in the way of people. all I care about is getting out of sight of the person who makes me sad, because I was achingly aware of her proximity as the tears started spilling out and I do not want her to see it, do not want to give her any more reasons to hate me than she already has. my sorrow is an ugly thing, best kept under locks and seals and several masks.
we stand there for a long time and neither of us says anything. I’m crying and she’s hugging me and rubbing my shoulders and hair. my ankle, twisted because of my awkward standing position, aches, but I’m reluctant to do anything about it, because I don’t want to leave this little safe haven just yet. not until the tears stop, and they just keep fucking coming - every time it seems like they might be drying off, a new wave of remorse and sadness floods over and I’m drowning in my own salt water seas.
after a long time it starts showing signs of remitting a little, and my instructor puts her head to mine and says quietly, “you’re doing well. well done. great, Noora.” and like I said in an earlier entry here, for a very brief little nanosecond I want to punch someone because I’m NOT doing well, but I know she means the thing we discussed earlier this week: how difficult it is for me to knowingly allow anyone see I’m feeling bad, even though in reality everyone can see it and I just delude myself into thinking otherwise. her compliments make me sniffle more and it takes a long time to calm down enough to have her suggest we’ll go to the sofa area. it means a lot to me that she adds we’ll go together. she doesn’t physically hold my hand but on an emotional level I feel the same support and companionship.
I manage to calm down for a while - Thomas Harris said it well in one of the Hannibal books, that the body is kind in the sense that intense emotions cannot last very long at a time; they come back, yeah, but they calm down every now and then for a while to give the body a moment of respite - and I am petted by a friend, even if the first ten minutes of it are spent by my sitting absolutely still because I’ll burst into tears if I so much as open my mouth, and for a moment I feel alright, but especially the toilet trips are hard because I have a tendency to break down in there. sobs ring off the walls and I miss my knife so much it’s a physical pain. I would, I would cut and I would cut a lot if my bag was with me like it usually is. but somehow the trip from the toilet to the locker box feels too tasking in my current state, so I sniffle off into a quiet room. a girl has to use the computer there, which I’ve forgotten about, but I sit so that I can’t see her and she doesn’t acknowledge me in any way so it’s not as bad as I fear it might be. at some point an instructor comes in and talks to me for a moment, and I appreciate her efforts at trying to calm me down but her responses anger me too, because it feels like she’s doing the thing my instructor and I just talked of yesterday: saying “shit happens” is true but it undermines the pain I’m feeling about the shit right now. I do like it when she asks me what’s wrong, I force out a whimpering “life hasn’t gone according to plans at all” and she responds with a comforting “but it can still go according to plan”. (it even sounds funny because in Finnish we say, literally, that something’s gone to the pipe. my life really hasn’t gone to the pipe.)
a little later I hang around in the quieter areas and this “intruding” instructor (who is dear to me, too - it’s just very tough competition when my instructor is such a guardian angel!) is talking with my instructor there so I gravitate to them, too, and when the other instructor goes away, my instructor looks at me, leaning on the doorway and feeling like I need to hang myself somewhere just to stay in an upright position - I feel like my eyebags are so heavy it’s a wonder my cheeks aren’t trailing on the floor -, and she says in her calm, warm voice, “you are brave.” and I feel tears flood and darken my entire face again, and then she asks me if I want to talk about it. I swear I ask her “about what?” and I’m not even playing stupid, I’m just too fucking tired to make any sense of anything - I just am that stupid at this moment. but we talk, we talk about IT, my feelings and our situation with the girl, and even though she doesn’t say anything new or different, she has a way of saying it so that it doesn’t sound so dreadfully bleak. there is a silver lining and I voice it and cling to the fact that she nods at my words. and it often helps just to be able to talk to someone, even a little. it means the world to me that she at least appears to understand and doesn’t judge me even though I’ve practically had the same record on for the last three to eight months and we go round in circles. I know the exact time of this conversation because I have to focus on the clock many times so as not to start crying again. she says this thing about this being more about me than the other person, because the other person is more volatile and fast in her emotional movements, that I’m the one who needs the most recuperation time (at which point I say “but I don’t HAVE time…!” and I almost break down over it and she puts her hand on my back as if to hold me together by the magic of her touch), and I’m struck not by what she says because it’s true, but because what she says is the exact same thing my horoscope touted this morning. I have a vague feeling the Universe is talking to me again, only now through my instructor.
and she tells me to talk to the person I miss. since she’s here, now, and won’t be any more. she asks me how this person’s behaved towards me and with suprise catching my voice I reply “kindly” and explain how our recent interactions, few as they are, have led me to this word choice. she says she’s not pressuring me at all but that we need to talk, I should go talk to that person. I want to tell her it’s not possible, I want to be able to express the rejection that suggestion will surely be met with, but nothing comes out because I’m on the verge of tears and I keep wanting to ask her to come along but something holds that back, too. eventually I manage to say, “it’s just… hard.”, meaning the whole existing and living and being here today and everything, everything relating to this, and the tears well up once again and I twirl around like a restless dancer before a show. she says it’s allowed to be hard. she says I should go talk with the person. I have difficulty swallowing or looking anywhere but at the clock high up on the wall or my shuffling feet moving about in their ripped stockings. schedules and my crescendo of a fear get in the way and flush over me, though.
in the afternoon we have a card round, where you give your card to the person next to you and they write a word association, about a certain topic, about you in there and then pass the card along again, and in the end you get your own card back filled with words people associate with you. on my instructor’s card I write that to me she is the colour of a neon-glowing white-green, like an exit sign, although later I wish I could change it into “a prism” because she’s a multitude of colours to me. but at that moment she’s a light in the dark to me. I have second thoughts about writing in the cards of the people I used to feel so close to and now miss terribly, and I will hate myself for it later a lot but I write in them anyway, against my better judgment. they do the same for me and when I get my card back it makes me cry all over again, especially how one of them wrote my dessert association is jell-o, no one ever likes jell-o and it’s boring and bland and wobbly, and another wrote I remind them of mist as a weather. mist is dank and musty and depressing and cluelessly foggy and cold and wet and evaporates without a trace. I have to skip the musical round because I need to go sob my eyes out in the toilet. my instructor comes to get me back for the end of the day round. (we’ve been sitting next to each other all day long again, so it’s easy for me to just signal to her I’m going to go now, and she can see my fight with my tears when I’m sitting there stubbornly. I also tell her how it’d be nifty to have a portable oxygen tank in case of anxiety attacks, and we share a laugh over the thought of oxygen whiskers attached to little tanks in a beer can hat.)
the last question is what one got out of this summer, and my instructor makes the round go in the direction away from me, like she does often when I’m sad, come to think of it - on happier days (meaning the days when I’ve worked my sadness up into a frenzy reminiscent of my being on drugs) I often get to start. it’s good she does this, though, because I’m at a loss as to what I can say without ranting off a list of all the negativity and shit. and I can’t exactly go “oh, a botched suicide attempt”, can I? everyone else has positive answers and while my summer has been kill-myself levels of sad, I have had good things as well so when my turn comes, I say “Pandora’s box and my optical fibre donkey here” (optical fibre is literally “light fibre” in Finnish, and light is the key word here so the translation doesn’t work the same way) and look at her with what I hope is an expression that indicates appreciation and affection, but I probably look more like I’ve taken too many pills again. my face feels doughy. she understands my reference, though, which is the main thing. she knows the magnitude of what Pandora’s box refers to, and she knows what I mean with light and burros and whatnot - I like to think she knows the amount of thankfulness from my words.
when we’re leaving, I hug her and thank her once again because I don’t know how else to tell her how much she helps me - I literally wouldn’t be alive without her anymore and I don’t know if anyone else thinks that’s a good thing, but I know she does and I want to think that in the future I’ll be thankful for being alive, too. she tells me it’ll get better, better things are coming, and I whine I don’t feel that way, and she laughs “feel otherwise! you’re feeling WRONG!” and I laugh that my donkey is out of order by admonishing me, and she makes a braying noise as we start moving our separate ways, but she clings to my left arm gently and asks to confirm that I’ll be there tomorrow for the exhibition, and I say yeah, see you tomorrow. I smile as I think of how I wrote YEAH! next to my attendance sheet row in anticipation of tomorrow. her hand slides off my arm and my fingers kind of twitch of their own accord - it’s been a hard day and although this is not rejection or abandonment on any level, it is the start of many hours without her support and help and closeness and I guess my hand wanted to hold on for a while longer. maybe forever, is that too long? lol.
the person I miss says bye to some people in the general area and it takes me all the energy I want to pretend I have to remind myself it’s not for me, don’t respond, don’t respond at all, don’t provoke any more anger. I can’t even say bye and it feels cruel.
my pal and I take a detour home via the grocery store and I buy a shitload of things to munch on. I’m doing quite well with money and food in general these days but today I just want to fuck everything, get drunk and forget everything. unfortunately I have a very conscious evening full of tears and pain, as my ealier text post evidences. I call a friend for moral support but she says a lot of hope-crushing, dashing-to-the-ground things and I hang up after we’re through and wonder why I never learn - this was not the first time and God help me I worry it won’t be the last, either. I’m just in so much anguish and hurting so badly, I wanted someone to point out the silver lining again, I wanted my head to be forcibly turned in its direction. I find desperate solace in thinking I can ask my instructor for it tomorrow. the night is chafingly long, but I manage to pass out, thankfully.
I’ve used a week’s worth of insulin in a day because when I’m upset (which I am a lot these days, lol) my blood glucose levels rise a lot. I haven’t gone to the toilet too often, though, because all the liquid in me falls out through my tear ducts. it’s really hard to keep breathing.
Friday August 29, 2014
one of the first things my instructor says to me as I stand next to her and nonchalantly beg for her to reassure me of the fact that there is a little ray of hope in the horizon - all my sentences end in unsounded question marks and the way I stare away and act interested in the art show, an expression of studied calm on my face, is almost painful, and she responds in similar tones of voice, makes the whole thing sound very minor, as if we picked the topic because we had nothing better in mind… - is “did you talk to her? yesterday?” and even though I’m not even looking at her in the face, as I never do when there are difficult topics to dredge through, I can see her slight frustration at my sheepish no. she says then it’s still looming ahead, that one day we will have to talk. I want to tell her how I wanted to talk to the person we’re taking care not to use the name of, but I was so scared and there were things happening all the time and how the thought of approaching the person and being rejected straight out, as is likely to have happened, crippled me into a sobbing mess who wanted to eat her blade in the toilet. everything gets stuck in my throat so I say nothing and stare at our exhibition and am not sure what to feel, so I choose not to feel anything. a calm numbness creeps over, but I feel empty and it’s hard not to cry.
I went to the show for the company and to support my fellow workshop people and for the free ice cream, yeah, but above all I went there to have her tell me things are not as dark as I’ve been told, not even as dark as I feel they are - to have her tell me what my own sense is trying get heard in the maelstrom of emotions, screaming words getting lost in the roar of my violent depression and hopelessness. and she does tell me, in a nonchalant, slightly unsure manner, as we stand there side by side watching the felt art.
the emotional toddler in me wants more, a loud tight hug and repeated, strongly emphasised promises of good things to come soon. but her way is better, I recognise that. she gives me what I want and what I need but does not mollycoddle, and that in turns helps me grow into my potential. she’s not overly protective but does take care of me - there have been a few times when she’s laughed really crassly at “how shitty” my way of thinking is, and I’ve laughed along because she’s been right and I like that someone is very honest with me without being cruel and hurtful. it’s a very fine balance and I admire her immensely for her talent with it. I am so blessed to have her in my life.
the show looks nice, I get to spend time with people I love more than anything and we have good little chats (and the girl who had to witness my shamefaced crying yesterday comes over to say hi and hugs me in a shoulder-scratching hello and I’m overwhelmed with her gesture, the way it says she cares about me and wishes me well), and we have fun as we have ice creams and coffees and our boss enthuses about being a pro with the camera she was just told how to use and about how smoothly the purchase transaction went, after only eleven years of practise! (she literally tells us “pick one item per person, get in line, two minutes!” and that goes awesomely. I feel like we’re a class of toddlers instead of the young adults we all are, but maybe emotionally we are closer to kindergarten age and it’s totally fine, to be honest - we’re childlike endearing and enthusiastic and loveably naïve with our world views. we’re the best.) my instructor hands our boss a bag and our boss stuffs it into her bag, looking content, and I ask my instructor, once again sitting next to me, what’s in it. “needles!” she replies joyfully, and I laugh in surprise, because while in reality I guess we’re talking about felting needles for the exhibition, my first thought was syringes for recreational drugs - my first memory of my instructor is of a walk we did in a group on her first week at the workshop, and I found a drug syringe that I didn’t want to touch, so she picked it up and took it to an appropriate trash. I remember that warmly because I told her she’d blended in with the already-existing crowd very well, and she told me that was a very nice thing to hear, thank you. I remember that because it felt good to have made someone feel so visibly good.
as we’re leaving our separate ways, I hug my instructor and wish her a lovely September, we’ll see in four weeks’ time… she tells me she’ll be expecting good news from me, then, in a voice that’s less pressure on me to do something and more reassuring hope for me to hold onto. I exclaim, so am I! and she gives me the thumbs-up.
I run after my pals, my high heels clipping against the stone and mixing with the laughter in the air, and although I am blue with sadness all the way home, I can envision myself - the way I see Me, the inner me, the pretty, lovely young woman - doing an energetic, graceful pirouette with a smile on my face. she can’t come out until the foundation is better, until the cracks are sealed, until the hollowness is filled with something positive, but I can see her in my mind’s eye. I try to think that I can be open to good change. what I decide to do with cutting is symbolic of the whole thing: I won’t cut this evening, but I won’t refrain from doing so at any point during September, if I feel like I need it. this isn’t a break. I just won’t do it for now. but it’s okay. no stress. the silver lining is there and will shine brighter and brighter if I can just hold on for long enough. just because I can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there.
she told me she can see hope in me, even if I don’t feel it yet, and once again I’ve been labelled as a side-effect of someone else’s words because I keep thinking it must be hope that keeps me from slitting my wrists open because I’m fucking sad but there is something… not holding me back, no tangible hope or ray of light, but something… something.
maybe there is a hope in me, so small yet that I can’t feel it even though I am a masterful emotion detector. maybe a shot at a silver lining.
maybe. just maybe.