Shameful Scars Part 2: The Struggle Continues

Last year, when I wrote about my history of self-harm, I said I was never going to do it again, and I never wanted to do it again. I unintentionally lied. I can't predict the future, so little did I know that I'd scratch myself up again on several occasions. Little did I know that drumming wouldn't cure me completely of this urge to punish and scourge myself. Little did I know.

I did it last night, and I've done it on several occasions in the past year. The reasons stay the same, I'm hurt, and angry and I want to punish myself for being hurt and angry. I want to punish myself for being me. Because in that moment, I hate myself so much, I want to suffer and I want to die. Because in that moment, I finally see what others see, an ugly, awkward weirdo, who is ultimately unloved, and will eventually be abandoned by all her friends.

Maybe in a day or two, these feelings will go away. Maybe by tomorrow I'll feel good and pretty again. But right now, all I can think about is taking my Swiss army knife and carving myself up like a Christmas ham. I feel alone, and I feel unwanted, and I don't even want to say why or how these feelings happened, because I'm afraid if I do everyone will laugh at me. And that maybe if people see this words, they'll think I'm a self-pitying loser, and not a person in pain. Maybe that's the truth. Maybe I am just a self-pitying loser.

Everyone tells me to stop self-harming. As if just scolding me like a bad puppy will make it go away. No one goes to an alcoholic, and just says "Stop drinking, bad lush! Bad!".
Just telling me to stop, or telling me how bad it is isn't going to cure me. Therapy and medications only do so much. The Drum? Who cares? Nobody takes it seriously, nobody takes what I do seriously. So I can sing a couple of pretty Native American songs? In this society, I'm not doing anything meaningful. I'm just trying to keep a dying culture alive.

So here it is. No optimism. I'm a cutter, and I'll always be a cutter. There's no fucking magic spell I can wave that'll make all my pain and problems go away. I don't know why I keep forgetting that.

Continuation of memoirs?

One spring three years ago, I found myself in a nostalgic mood for a school trip I had been on the year before. I decided the best way to express these feelings on this blog, by writing an account of the trip the band and choir took to Hershey Park. I had only meant it to be one post, but, I decided, in the interest of capturing every detail, to space out the story into parts. It took me a little while to write this, but I did it. And I thought that would be the end of it. I thought there wouldn't be anymore memoirs.

But as usual, I was wrong. That summer, after deciding to make a trip to The Great Escape with a friend, I began to feel pangs of nostalgia. This time, these feelings were directed towards my very first visit to The Great Escape, exactly ten years before. So, I decided to write about that, and with that informed my scant amount of followers that these 'little memoirs' would occur occasionally.

Again, I was wrong. I'd already decided to write about my trip with Acacia, not long after the adventure was over. This endeavor took me much longer to complete than either of the first two memoirs. It became self-indulgent, extravagant and florid with pointless details.

After 'The Adventures of Fox and Squirrel' was finished, I was bored. I was still ripe with nostalgia, but couldn't think of any other 'adventures' to write about. So I started excessively editing all three of this ridiculous 'memoirs', fixing mistakes, adding things, taking them out and rewording things to make them easier to understand. It took me some time, but I had fun doing it. But still, the feelings of nostalgia persisted.

When I found out that my Aunt Jenny was having her vows renewed, and the day before the ceremony my Uncle Russel would be taking me to the Great Escape. I already knew that I would be blogging not only about my excursion to the amusement park, but about the entire weekend. In a moment of madness, I decided that each day of that weekend would be a separate memoir unto itself. Friday would cover the trip there, Saturday would cover my trip to the Greats Escape, and Sunday would cover the Vow Renewal ceremony. I had intended to make a fourth 'volume' to cover the ride home, but decided that would be a step too much.

I write the first volume and the second volume with little trouble. But by the time I got to writing about Sunday, my interest in writing memoirs had suddenly flagged. I tried, but only got two entries in. Then I gave up on writing memoirs, in favor of better writing ideas. I still wanted to finish the Sunday Volume though, and refused to start another one of these accursed self-indulgent blogs until I had finished it. But frankly I don't want to finish it, it seems irrelevant now.

But I beg to ask this question. Do I want to write another memoir in the future? I'm going to Canobie Lake park this year, do  I want to cover that? And why do I only write about amusement parks? And furthermore, will deciding to write about this upcoming trip taint the fun by giving me high expectations. Will it make any fun I have less genuine?

I still have to think about this. But for now, my xanax is kicking in and I need to sleep.

Dickhats, Angsty Poetry, Jesu Complex, what what?

So here we are. I haven't posted here in months. Between recovering from surgery, moving, getting mugged and all the general stress that life brings, I've been just a wee bit busy. Nor have I been in much of a mood to write, and what I do write, is either angst-ridden poetry, or stuff I'm saving for The Book I Want Published.

So what am I thinking about? What am I reading? What am I going to do with this tiny corner of the internet that no one seems to notice?

Fuck if I know. It irritates me, that pretentious dickhats like my ex-boyfriend get all these followers, when all he does is talk utter nonsense about liberal politics. Frankly, hyper-focusing on politics is a little bit irritating. It's like, OK, Bryan, we get it, you think Republicans are basically Nazis, and that Obama has no balls, and that bunch of hipsters in the street with signs are going to change America. OK 'Neo', we get it. You're a victim in this dystopian nightmare known as America.You're going to save us all, in your magical leather trench coat and uber hip sunglasses, but we're all stupid sheeple who reject our savior. Huh, that sounds awfully familiar. Getting a bit of a Jesus Complex? 'Cause if you're Jesus, then I'm White Buffalo Woman.

Dude, call me when you drum at the JFK Library in Boston, and you're in their archives as a Native American Drummer. Call me when you've written a song to sing with the drum (you don't play the drum, it is a living entity, the heartbeat of the people) and that you're going to be singing it at powwows and it'll be on Voice of United Spirit's next album.

I'm too distracted to really write about anything else, so meh. My next entry will be about whether or not I choose to continue writing 'personal memoirs' on this blog. I'm sure you're all so excited you could piss your pants.