I guess you can tell, after yesterday’s post, that it’s been a bad kind of week…? I hate being hurt. I hate being lied to. I hate being talked about. I really, really hate people doing things because they think they know ‘what’s best for me’.
Honestly… no one knows what this is like. How can they possibly know what’s best for me, what I need, when they can’t understand where I’m at?
Once upon a time, in the before before the Purple Before, before children or any kind of being a grown up; I used to cut myself when things hurt. Sometimes I still feel the urge to do it now.
It’s the blood I think about, the redness of it, the shine; that’s what holds the appeal these days. It’s no longer the pain, I no longer crave the swelling hurt that makes me grit my teeth, the power I got from not crying out. I still craved that pain, right up until Tony died; and then that craving seemed insipid and teenage, the thought that the pain of a simple razor cut could even come close to comparing with the pain I was already in.
So it’s not the pain now, it’s the blood. I’m fairly psychologically aware, I know what that means. It means I’m screaming out for help, wanting some visual marker for the pain, something that people can’t run away from, something they can’t so easily ignore.
And, being the relatively crazy person that I am, this also occasionally manifests itself in the desire to shave my head.
Yep. Britney style.
You can poke fun at Britney Spears all you like, but I get this chick. I understand that desperation.
How many times can you scream? How hoarse can you make yourself, crying? How may pleading phone calls to people to who are sick are being your friends can you make?
How many times can you get pierced and tattooed before you realise no one is paying attention, before you realise that those markers just aren’t painful enough scars to effect the world, to make them stop and listen?
I have some strange fascination with women shaving their heads. It’s so anti-feminine and socially it draws gasps and assumptions of illness and rabid female hysteria, especially if it’s done for a reason other than altruism. Speaking, a bloggy friend of mine named Kim is The World’s Greatest Shave next month, and that’s awesome. Any support you can throw her way is muchly appreciated.
Bald women, they are beautiful. They have a certain majesty to them- they have to. You need a special kind of confidence to pull off being hairless, with every feature exposed.
I don’t think I’m that confident. Maybe. Not this weekend, anyway.
But I’m certainly still thinking about it. I even did myself a mock up of how it might look…
… which was probably a bad idea. Had I not scared myself with that picture, I might have actually gone through with it.