Sometimes I forget when this all started, or if it ever had a start to begin with.
"To Thine Own Self Be True"
Shakespeare said that. In his act of Hamlet...Polonius in Hamlet said "This above all: to thine own self be true,And it must follow, as the night the day,Thou canst not then be false to any man.Farewell, my blessing season this in thee!"
The first bit always got to me. 'To Thine Own Self Be True" I didnt discover this quote until one night I were surfing the internet, my left arm numb and puffy from another bad day, and it just randomly popped out at me. I'd always been a fan of Shakespeare and Longfellow, and of course Mark Twain. But it were on that particular night, when I had attempted and failed to take too many medications. I'd simply had enough. I didnt want to deal with the pain and anguish of life unknown. To endure the suffering frustration of not knowing who I were, or what I were doing, or why I were so cruelly cursed the way I were. I kept thinking "If there even is a god, why would he play a joke so cruel as to put my mind in the wrong body, just to watch me suffer? And not only let others alienate me, but let me alienate myself."
I were no stranger to pain. I were a very clumsy child by birth. Constantly breaking bones or bruising my flesh by accident, so much in fact that the doctors pulled me aside at the age of thirteen and asked if my widowed mother were abusing me. She werent, of course. But I were always bruised.
At the age of seventeen or so, I began the foolish endeavor of burning. I'd heat up a butter knife with a candle, and burn myself. On my neck, my shoulders, my arms...none scarred though. I werent sure why I were doing it, I only knew that it made my emotional breakdowns better.
I knew there were something going on with me, and I couldnt figure out what. I were always sad, always annoyed, always angry. Nothing anyone could do or say would help, but increase it.
Unfortunatly, nothing my mother would say or do helped either. She seemed to make things so much more worse, and it wouldnt be until I got older did I realize she werent doing it to be mean. She just didnt understand what was happening to her daughter. I refused dresses, I despised shopping, and every part of me wanted to break down and start to scream when she demanded I keep my hair long.
I hated myself, and I couldnt even understand why. Looking in the mirror, staring at my reflection, and wishing I could make it disappear. All of it. I didnt know what I wanted different, but I just wanted it.
I didnt understand why the terms "miss, ma'am, girl, woman" offended me so much. They're just words, right? Just things people would say? It never occurred to me...
When people would say "because you're a girl" or "girls shouldnt do that", All I wanted to do was scream on top of my lungs and tell them to shove it down their throats. I were so violent...all the time.
I became severely depressed, and nothing could soothe me. Id always wanted to continue doing self harm, but I never worked up the nerve. I couldnt get myself to start. You see...I didnt want to die. I didnt want to take that chance, and have an accident. I just wanted to numb out the mental anguish.
Back this year, I had finally leapt that boardwalk and plunged into the darkness of regret. I had finally told my boyfriend that I were bisexual. That part was easy. He were actually glad for it.
But when I told him I were male, just not physically, my life turned upside down.
Our relationship strained, though neither of us would let go of it. We couldnt...not after four years together. I found something at my place of work, in the first aid box on the wall. At first it were innocent. I had a splinter, so I found something called a "Splinter-Out". Nothing that could cause serious, life threatening damage. I took out a splinter, and were amazed by how well it worked...
And I started my journey through the darkness.
It started with just a few. Two cuts, that's all. But then it became four. And five. As I sit here, I can count out the twenty-five little pink scars on my left and right arms. And those are the ones that remained, not including the ones that never stayed behind. It became a staple for my anxiety, to hold back my fits of emotional breakdowns. The physical pain numbed out the emotional turmoil. But when I realized that I couldnt 'just stop', it scared me. I turned to my boyfriend, and a few online friends.
So far, I'm on day 14 of no cutting. And it's not easy. Today has been horrible....
That's why I'm writing. To distract myself. To pass the time, and keep myself safe.
And mostly...to get it off my chest.
I'm in the process of getting a tattoo over my scars.
A nice victorian gothic scroll over my forearm. And the quote on top of it?
"To Thine Own Self Be True"