Pulsating

Like the rest of the hospital, it’s unlikely that you, dear reader of this especially cherished corner of the blogosphere, will believe that I cut an artery accidentally. But it truly was an accident.

I bought better blades. Sharper blades. The best blades I have ever had – much better than the scissors I was unnecessarily attached to (probably destroyed by the police anyway after they confiscated them from me on a midnight manic suicidal run through a random suburb). These blades are sharp. They are so sharp they glisten in the light. When I drag them across my flesh, it’s so easy to draw hurt. It’s so easy to make a mess of my Frankenstein flesh. The beads of blood burst readily from beneath my skin.

Which makes these blades especially dangerous when I am particularly angry.

Dragging a sharply honed blade across your flesh with the same amount of force you once applied to do damage with blunted scissors will lead only to disaster.

To another night in the emergency department.

To another night questioned ceaselessly by the mental health team (who know me a little too well at this point).

And, to another night of self-harming, but this one with a terrible difference: there was so. much. blood. It poured from my arm. It made a mess of my carpet. It drowned the bathroom tiles with scarlet sludge.

It was scary, to have such a bad consequence to my self harm when (for once) I wasn’t intent on having consequences. I wasn’t wanting to go deep like at other times where I have need stitched up. I hadn’t decided, when I touched the blade to my skin, that I would slice an artery. But I did it. And, honestly, it was scary and exhilarating.

Self harm and I are having a moment; a relapse, if you will. It calls to me like a long-lost friend. I forgotten how much I loved it, and the emotional care it offered me in return.

But it’s okay. I have the best blades to keep me company, and a wealth of anatomy knowledge at my disposal with which to successfully avoid cutting anything crucial.

Feeling okay makes me not okay

This phrase we’ve accumulated: it’s okay not to be okay, has taken a unique turn in the general shittiness of my life. I’ve discovered that feeling okay, that feeling content, less depressed, more energetic, anything that goes beyond the usual neurotic distress, very quickly makes me not okay. I find it uncomfortable to the point that it becomes just as distressing as all the other urges I suffer through every day.

I can’t handle being okay. I can’t handle ‘happiness’. I don’t even know what that really looks like. Because, for the first time since I was a very, very little girl, I am having good days.

Today was a good day. I slept (properly). I ate breakfast (restricted). I studied. Cycled to the health food store. Studied. Practised yoga. Studied. Did some watercolour. Cooked dinner (deliberately portioned). Had a bath. Watched TV shows that make me smirk. Today was a day that has left me feeling content. But, there it is. That inexplicable sensation. The withdrawal. The beginnings of emptiness spreading outwards from my being, just like ink beginning to curl away on a page.

Why does feeling okay make me feel not okay? I feel so deeply that I am worthless and will always be worthless that I cannot account for these times where I feel okay about myself. Where I might possibly find life. Where I find balance in the things I must do (study) and the things I love (yoga, and art, but also study too tbh).

I don’t understand it. How do people tolerate this feeling of contentment? Is it the same as tolerating anger, when you’re not a borderline well accustomed to the tear of a blade across your own flesh to release it? Is it the same as tolerating anxiety, when you don’t knock hard surfaces so rapidly that the skin of your knuckles tears? It is the same as tolerating euphoria, when you don’t have manic episodes coercing energy through your veins?

Maybe, just as with all the other feelings, I need to stop thinking of them as obstacles that need to be removed. Just as I need to learn to coexist with anger and sadness and distress and anxiety, so too do I need to learn that feeling content is okay. It doesn’t diminish my struggle. It doesn’t weaken my fight. It’s just not something I’m equipped to handle yet, and I guess that for now, that will have to be okay.