I spoke to a grief counselor, the other day. He spoke about age regression, how everyone regresses in age during grief.
He asked me, what age do I feel, most of the time, right now?
Fifteen. Fourteen, maybe, but I think 15 was worse.
Remember, being a teenager? Being fragile like that? Every slight, joking or not, was a major blow to what little self esteem you had. You were all wrapped up in yourself, insecure, and hurting a lot of the time.
Or maybe that was just me. Is just me. Because that’s how I feel right now. Fragile. Sensitive. I really just want someone to wrap me up and tell me it’s OK.
A male, as I’ve said before. Females, I love them and they are my nurturing, holding community at the moment. Women are good at this stuff, better than men. But I need a bloke. Not like that, not to kiss me, or touch me. Just to protect me, for ten minutes, from all this awfulness.
I’ve been so strong, now, for over a month. I miss my Tony, my soft place to fall. I need the next best thing.
I cut myself, when I was fifteen. I’ve been meaning to blog about it for a while now. I carved tiny words into my hand. I burnt myself, with a lighter, all up my forearm. and slashed myself, repeatedly, to watch myself bleed.
I was in so much pain, when I was fifteen. And I felt so worthless. And that’s how I feel now. I cut myself, then, because it all hurt, everything hurt, and no one seemed to care. Maybe if I was marked, physically hurting on the outside too, someone might pay attention.
It hurts even more, when you bleed, when you scream, when you beg for help; and the help you need, the things that will stop the hurt, aren’t given. Aren’t there.
I’ve been tempted, to cut myself now. I always am, when I’m in pain, and no one seems to be listening. The funny thing about it is, it wouldn’t be enough. No matter how much I cut, or how much blood I shed, it wouldn’t be even near to enough right now.
There were almost 200 000 hits on this blog last month. That scares the crap out of me, and I almost weep with gratefulness at the same time. The irony. Is this not what every blogger wants? But what a way to get it.
I’ll swap you, what I had, my 6000 hits a month, for my life back. My purple life.
I’m grateful. Grateful that what I’m saying is being read, I think it’s important. But I never meant it to be this. I didn’t mean to be some kind of warped advocate for mental health. That’s not why I spoke.
I just need to write. And this is where I do it.
But I’m glad you’re all here, reading. Sharing it, the pain, letting it seep out into the world through my keyboard.. it helps. Just a fraction, just a bit. To take the edge of the very, very rawness of this agony.
I’m fifteen again. I feel like weeping, most of the time, and a lot of the time I do.
Calm… gentle… nice. I just need people to be nice to me.