#day1515

written 2.5 ish years ago- trigger warning (sorry)

it doesn’t normally bother me. it doesn’t normally bother anyone, if i’m being honest. many things i do bother people. i don’t eat very much, i eat too much. i overshare online. i am fat. i laugh kind of ugly. i am a disorganized mess. i am constantly losing or misplacing things. i sometimes take a while to reply to messages; reply too fast other times. i don’t stick up for myself- especially when men treat me like i’m dumber than i actually am (this happens frequently). i’m pretentious and charming until you hurt me, then i cut you off with a vengeance. i’m too much and not enough all at once. i worry at my looks often; i feel unworthy of having a face.

but this one thing seems to go under your radar.

i’m not really complaining. it’s preferable. this is just an observation. sometimes it is not unnoticed, but this comes as quick glances, an awkward face, and nothing else. subject change. strictly professional.

my roommate doesn’t even notice, and i’m around him constantly. well, he notices. he just doesn’t care, which is damn near worse. every time i sulk into the living room with new bandages on my left forearm or tops of my thighs, he hardly glances. no empathy. no questions. no, “why would you do that to yourself?” none of that. he will tell me he is going to order food, or go lay in bed if it’s late enough. i nod robotically. we are very mundane. we are simple, quiet, gentle. we are not physically intimate. he does not touch me. he is just a good friend. any sweet words we had for each other died up and shriveled in the sun. occasionally he will sit near me until i feel my skin crawl from overstimulation. we hang out twice a month like clockwork, and every night in my bathroom, i run the sink faucet and cry so hard i vomit. but the rest of that is for another time. i allow this treatment. it’s what i deserve-

wait. let me backpedal. i was wrong. one person has noticed and acted in turn- my mother, of all people. i look in the mirror and occasionally see her eyes staring back at me, green and sad and overworked and used by every man she’s ever encountered. history has repeated itself in me, her oldest, her most resented. anyway, she took the old boxcutters out of my childhood bedroom, so i can’t cut myself open whenever i visit ohio. it drives me insane. i scratch at myself with my nails, but it doesn’t do much good. the endorphin and dopamine rush isn’t the same, the crimson doesn’t appear without the tool she has taken away. i love that color, as cliche as that sounds.

i was shooting today and the bright studio grade lights lit me up like a christmas tree. a relatively pale one, but still. every freckle, scar, and bruise was visible on my body. the particularly angry and pink self inflicted wounds stood out. this is what got me thinking. my costar was next to me and didn’t even seem to notice. if he did, it likely filled him with disgust. the director didn’t notice, i know this. if he had, the shoot would have stopped. it would never have been released. most consumers can’t focus if a model has obvious dark imperfections. i know a girl who once had to leave a set early because her stretch marks were too visible. distracting, the director told her. something she can’t even control and she got sent away anyways. like a leper.

but i finished the shoot today. took it like a champ. dissociated the whole time, my mind wandering to the ocean and seeing my dog again. i remember fake smiling and how badly the kitchen table was hurting me. (modeling is never comfortable.) and of course, i remember how vile my scars looked. i still have to shoot more tomorrow and the day after, and my thoughts will wander right out the window while doing it. i tell myself it’s not a problem and that my sexual trauma never resurfaces. definitely not. but. kyle wasn’t that long ago, in hindsight. right? am i still allowed to grieve?

when i was a teenager, first cutting myself at age 13, i didn’t really have a motive as to why i did it. i’d never seen anyone do it before, but i gave into one intrusive thought with a kitchen knife, and suddenly i was addicted. i liked the buzz that came after. the cleanup, the care. i liked seeing physical evidence of something i had control over. starving and losing weight wasn’t quick- seeing blood gush out of me was instant gratification. whenever someone did notice my arms, i denied. denied all the way to hell. i used to have real, actual, cringey dreams that someday a boy would romantically kiss all the scars on my skin and tell me i'm beautiful anyway. but i'm not beautiful. to most people, me doing that to myself is just an annoying habit, like nail biting or snoring, if they even notice i do it. i once bled too much once and my mom had to take me to the hospital- maybe that’s why she took my boxcutters in adulthood. to prevent me from bleeding out again. it was acceptable as a 17 year old, but at 23, it would just be embarrassing, and an expensive hospital trip. my friends wouldn’t even send me a cheap dollar store “get well soon” card. they wouldn’t even notice my lack of texts in the group chat- perhaps they’d feel relief that i finally shut up.

i don’t know what the point of any of this is. i’m still going to cut myself, and no one will stop me or care, and i prefer it that way. showers will still burn sometimes and i’ll still keep nexcare bandaids in full stock in my bathroom cabinet. none of this is a complaint, i hope you know that. they’re just my thoughts. i haven’t slept much these past few days.

maybe it’s a physical release. the mental and emotional release is my writing, the shit no one reads. the rest is physical release. i am a caged animal, teeth bared, hoping you get too close so i can bite your hand clean off.