The Eleventh Piece Self Harm: Part One (Trigger Warning)

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“Do you want to try it?” she asked

We were hiding in a hallway that linked two doorways; one led outside and the other led to the main hallway of our school.

I could not detach myself from the razor that she had in her hand. They were all creating a small incision on their wrist. I was curious. I grabbed the razor and created a cut on my left wrist. I felt a small sting, but it felt so good.

This wasn’t the first time I used pain as an escape. I would constantly pinch my body or burn myself in certain parts to just make certain emotions go away. The pain that rushed through my body was exhilarating. It took me to a place where I could only feel pain and nothing else, so when I made that cut on my wrist, my addiction commenced.

Every time I felt like I was emotionally collapsing from my insomnia nights, flashbacks, or life in general, I would close myself in my bathroom and break a shaving razor using the blade to lightly slice my wrist. After I was finished ,I threw the evidence away and became friendly with long sleeve shirts and sweaters.

One particular evening stands out though.

I was about 13 years old and I remember having a bad day. My bad days before were worse than today. Memories of my past would come back to me and drop me to my knees.

Luckily, I was alone in my room when a sudden flash back made me tremble. I can’t remember what the memory was, I can only remember what it did to me. I couldn’t breathe. My sight was blurry. I was shaking and sweating. I screamed a silent screamed and rushed to the bathroom. I looked for a shaving razor, but couldn’t find one. I saw a loose razor blade and picked it up. I slashed my wrist without stopping until my wrist was covered in a blanket of crimson red. My tears were like rain showers washing away dirt from the street. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried until my throat was dry. I cried until my eyes were red and swollen. I cried until my stomach ached. I cried until I had nothing else left. I was in there for a long time and no one suspected anything, just how I liked it.

It wasn’t until late that night that my addiction was discovered by my mother. She saw the blood from my sleeve and pulled it up. Tears fled from her and she asked Why?

I said, “Because of him…dad.” I wanted her to know the truth, but her ignorance overcame.

“I know you miss him. He will be with us soon. Don’t cry. Don’t do this anymore.” She caressed my hair.

I stared blankly and didn’t know what to think. No matter what, my truth was meant to stay buried.

“I just miss him.” I responded in a monotone voice.

I lied through my teeth. I lied.

Once again, my truth dwelled in the dark.

My addiction continued and

My wrist became a museum of my bad days.

Sweet Silence

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Wild flowers

Moonlight

Rain showers

Sun light

Darkness creep

Path is steep

Mouth closed

Hands fold

Across my chest

Safe and secure

Stay away from the lure

To open my mouth

SPEAK my truth

TELL my truth

SCREAM my truth.

Heart aches

Pain is furtive like a snake.

Sweet silence devour me.

I will no longer try to plead

Let me sleep

Close my eyes and let me dream

Sweet, sweet dreams of sunlight

Rain showers and moonlight while

Sorrounded by all sorts of wild flowers

Innocence of dreams

I am not worthy

I am damaged

I will shut this out.

I will keep my secret locked

It will not flee.

Just let me be me.

Let me dwell in this inchoate form

Sorrounded by the sound of the storm.

I am safe here.

A Happy Memory

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A frigid evening

a ride to the park

shivering wind and

warm hearts.

Fiery sunset

it’s bound to leave a mark.

Blankets of white covers, not a

green color in sight.

Time to grab some snow

Commence the snowball fight.

Visible breath from his chapped lips

Laughter and more of that sweet laughter

Happiness like scenes from a movie clip.

Frigid wind and warm hearts…

Inefficient

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My mind races

All the time that has passed.

Positive thinking

To prevent my desperation from collapsing.

Give me more time

To appreciate my small positive space

I am scared of that face

That I will make once I see how much TIME

has forsaken me.

Be gentle

Don’t you see that I am breaking.

I need more time to escape from

This dark entity.

I need more time to make my day

Shine and last for eternity.

One word for the struggle of PTSD; inefficient.

The Tenth Piece Missing (Trigger Warning)

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During our time of secret visitation to my father, my mind kept haunting me with questions:

Why is he not touching me?

Why is he not acting normal?

Does he not love me anymore?

In the back of my head I was aware that his actions were not right. They were not love from a true father, but after you become use to being treated a certain way; in my case, sexually abused every time my father and I were together alone; your own sense of reality becomes warped and everything within you follows. I needed my father’s “love.” His lack of “affection” made me think that I was no longer loved and I felt completely useless.

I know this may sound…disturbing, and pardon my way of expressing my thoughts, but the only way to understand is through the truth.

I felt like something was missing; I was incomplete, so I replace his lack of love with masturbation at the age of 11.

The first time I experimented with masturbation was probably around the middle of third grade during the time that my grandfather began sexually abusing me.

Our class went to the computer lab. The seats next to me were empty (I was a loner.) The computer lab was freezing and my hand were trembling so I decided to put my right hand between my thighs. It wasn’t instant. I just felt a sensation like I had to pull my hand higher towards my vagina. I tapped my finger and I felt like I had to keep going. I was scared because I did not know why I was doing it and why I had this twitch to keep going, until the teacher approached my computer and I stopped. That was the beginning and the temporary end of my semi masturbation.

So, when I turned 11, my first response for satisfaction to this void was inserting the end of a razor inside my vagina. It did not hurt for I have gone through this process many times. I responded to the lack of affection; masturbation. The first time, I quietly cried on my bathroom floor; disgusted with what I have done. Disgusted.

Masturbation was a baffling escape. At first I knew why I did it, then I lost track on why I continued when every time I inserted an object in my vagina, it resulted in disgust, shame, and overwhelming tears.

I thought I was missing something, but in truth, my reality was warped into something false. I was used many times by many men, so, for me, that was “love.” When everything stopped, that urge to become useful continued. I was desperate to feel needed.

So, I turned to the only thing I knew…

A Better Gloomy Day

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A distant mind.

A distraction I am

trying to find.

Cloudy day covered in mist.

Vibrant colors

Songs of birds

Not today. Today I resist.

Everything is gray

the colors, the air, the mist, the songs

synchronized in a ritualistic dance.

My eyes looked away.

My heart remained cold

My darlings laughed and smiled, but

My happiness could not unfold.

Guilt manifested within me.

Why am I feeling this on such a beautiful day?

A voice echoed in my head

“You are okay. This is just another gloomy day…”

Time to Move Forward

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March is a beautiful month; It is a time of awakening; colors begin to slowly

reveal themselves, flowers begin to bloom, our surroundings wake up from a well

deserved slumber. For me, there is only one day that brings me misery and

despair, March 17th; my father’s birthday.

As I have stated in a previous post, my parents and I share a similar birthday

month; we are about 2 weeks or so apart. I use to love the idea that we had this

one thing in common, but my father quickly poisoned my love with his perverse

ways.

Now, every year on his birthday, I feel…hhmm, how do I feel?

I used to feel angry or sad; I made a promise to myself that on the day of his

birthday, I would restrain from committing any form of celebration or happiness,

because if I did then in some way I would be celebrating him and he will be the

winner; a monster like that does not deserve an ounce of happiness after

all the darkness he spread, not only in my life, but everyone he touched.

“Now…I feel numb.” I told my husband as the hot trickles of water hit my

my body as I bathed.

My emotions have changed. For some odd reason, I do not feel anger or sadness.

I feel as though my emotional state has washed away any emotion linked to that

day, yet I tell myself, “Tomorrow I will do nothing.” My emotions are guiding me

to a direction of, I believe, positivity, but my mind is pulling me back.

Why do I have to prohibit myself from treating a day like a normal day. A

day like any other. If I am caging my own happiness, then isn’t he

winning?

The Smell of a Man

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As my husband lays his head on my breast, I press my nose

to his hair and caress it ever so gently. I close my eyes

and immerse myself with the smell of his hair until

the past pulls me down…

Musk.

A handful of Ralph Lauren cologne.

Throat burning.

Is this the smell of a man?

Stench of alcohol.

Sweat and…again that smell

of alcohol…

Is this the smell of a man?

No…this is the smell of a monster.

I pull myself back and place myself in my present.

Slowly, I run my fingers through his hair and inhale

the sweet, soft, and loving smell of this man.

This is the smell of a man…my man.

Something New

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I’m not much of a self loving person. I have always struggled with personal self esteem. My experience taught me that my body was just a toy, disgusting, disposable, used, and stained; so that is how I guided myself through school, marriage, and being a human. I started this self practice that I would compliment myself everyday, even if the words that came out of my mouth were filled with deception. I thought by doing so, I would believe it…eventually.

Recently, I found a balance within myself. I’ve noticed that I haven’t had any negative thoughts. I willingly keep myself busy to prevent myself from being devoured from my darker alter persona, but what stood out to me the most was that a couple days ago I was looking at my reflection and realised my beauty. I told myself,”You are…beautiful.” I give myself a timid smile as if I am complimenting a stranger…well, not even a stranger; I think my compliment towards he or she would be without hesitation and straightforward.

After this frightful realisation, I decided to share my thoughts with my husband. While looking at my reflection on the bathroom mirror, completely naked, I said,”My boobs look great. I’m starting to like them. I feel beautiful. Yeah…” My gaze remained as is. I wanted to look at him, so I just slightly turned my head and he looked and me and smiled, “You are beautiful. I was waiting for you to finally realise it.”

I could feel my chest tighten. I remained silent, but I couldn’t help but smile.

So this is what if feels like…to love yourself.

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The Ninth Piece Freedon with Chains: Part Three (Trigger Warning)

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Time and I never had the best relationship and after our confession, an opportunity for a mutual agreement was long gone. Our days were engulfed with courtrooms, family breakdowns, interviews, and psychologists. It seemed as if life was punishing my sister and I for…trying. Our efforts were looked down on, not praised. Our truth were lies cultivated and shielded by our mother’s pride.

The days when we were summoned in the courtrooms were the most difficult. Our mother made sure our lines were rehearsed and memorised. I hated the feeling of guilt that pierced my stomach sitting in that podium and repeating the same phrases:

Nothing happened.

It’s all lies.

We love our daddy and we want him to come back home.

All I can say is that my mother is a master manipulator and we, unwillingly, followed her steps. Before we knew it, rehearsal was unnecessary; the words glided out of our mouths, but the pain did not vanish. Besides the courtrooms and frequent visits to a psychologist, our family was quickly breaking apart. My older brother found comfort in drugs and his group of friends, so my mother used the rest of her free time watching out for him, bailing him out of jail and guiding him to thr correct path which he found little understanding in. On the other hand, my little brother conserved himself to the fullest; he enclosed himself from us, both emotionally and mentally. My little sister was in the middle of the storm; she was trying to find her place in an environment consisted of chaos. The one thing we had in common is the fact that we were all drifting apart; whether it was an inevitable path of life or just the mere fact of not being able to face each other with the truth, we continued to create a gap between us.

The one day we all came together as a ‘family’ was when we made our secret visits to our father. These specific days made me realize how quickly I lost the battle for justice. My mother found some way to visit him when there were strict prohibition of our contact. The days that we visited and slept over at his place created the illusion of the perfect family. We all laughed and bonded as though the world around us did not change a bit. I never knew if my siblings feeling were sincere when were all enclosed in that small room. The echoes of laughter, the uniform smiles, the hugs… The truth is, I was numb to everything that occurred around me. I wondered why my father wss acting like the perfect father. I wondered why he did not try to lay one hand on me during the nights that we stayed with him or why he did not dare to look at me once. Overall, I didn’t know how to feel about the whole situation, so in the end I gave up.

After about two years, the courtrooms stopped and my father and two uncles were sent back to their country. Even though I had the luxury of not seeing my perpetrators anymore, my mind and body did not correlatw. While my body moved forward, my mind continuously jumped from different time spans; the past being a top favorite.

Now that I think about it…we all mastered the skill of manipulation.