Permission

We talked about cutting and why I feel like I need it. We talked about almost feeling proud of the scars until I have to show them. Wednesday afternoon I have a physical with a doctor I don’t even know. He’s going to hold my hands, open my mouth and touch me. He’s going to ask about old scars and new ones.

I only feel ashamed of this when I have to talk to people about it. Their immediate reaction is, oh you shouldn’t hurt anymore. You’ve been through enough. It’s not like I don’t get that on a certain level. Part of cutting is punishment but part of it is for relief. It feels like a forbidden romance.

I told Dr. D about a poem I wrote for Blossom a long time ago. It’s about how if I feel pushed not to cut then I want to even more. It’s about people not being able to fix me and change not taking place unless change is desired. It’s about why I cut and being torn between what others want me to do for myself and what I feel I need to keep going.

Permission

I don’t need permission.
I don’t need the okay, a nod of approval saying to let go
Cut and cut lose.
I do not need a hand on my shoulder, holding it, grasping the corners of my arm
To flip me around and stand eye to eye.
I don’t need you to remind me that your love will wash all this away.
I remember, you promised this yesterday
But still I yearn for the release of skin and blade.

I am not driven by lust as lust goes.
I have no need for danger or to feel like I’m alive.
I know with each beat of my heart I live, horrified and battered, yes I live.
There is no joy found in devastating once smooth virgin skin and
No pleasure born of perversion as I lay down my mind and prepare to ravage my soul
In hopes of saving what remains of my shell before I lose it all to a fear greater than your disappointment, your disapproval.

You tighten the loving gaze in my eyes
I know what you’re thinking
You can fix this if you love completely, purely.
If you stand a little closer, dedicate every waking moment to my fights
Love with more than an abstract idea of what I need
And force my dreams to only lay claim on my night
Sparing sanity from long listless days.
I know what you’re thinking; you thought it yesterday and many times more
With the same conclusion as if destiny would change.
Still you seem stunned when pleading leads to manipulation
As my hand lays claim on razors and blades and
Strokes fueled by control re-open half healed wounds.
I know what you’re thinking, why aren’t YOU enough?

My breath is held captive when clutched in your bear hug arms
As I wait for permission to no longer need your permission to hold or push
To scream, talk or be silent.
To pull back or fall upon your neck and fill your ears with why
Why I’d ever place hope in steel’s sting
As I search for the vein that leads to yesterday
To spill its burdens before it claims my today.
How can I ever explain?

Arrow of Morton’s Pride

So here I go again, about to run out the door to therapy. I had to reschedule because of Wednesday’s physical. Three doctor appointments in a row is going to tire me out something awful.

Here’s one of the versions of the three kids I saw in a painting in my dream awhile back. It’s pretty much kids with wings on a stick. There’s a little redbird as well as a few flowers but mostly it’s kids on a stick.

Today is going to be a better day, I just know it.

Austin