"The mark of an immature man is that he would die knobly for a cause. The mark of a mature man is that he would live humbly for one" - Catcher in the Rye -WARNING WRITER SPELLING CHALLENGED! But Sometimes you have to say "what the fuck!"

Saturday, November 27, 2004

My Addiction to Pain

Sweet pleasure…
biting your lip so hard it bleeds
Picking your fingers raw
Drinking yourself to obliteration

Why does it feel good?
Pain

There is sweet control
In slicing your arm

Watching
Red blood flow

and you feel nothing.
-MLW 11/2004

I wrote this poem tonight thinking about pain. Sometimes I think I like pain. It’s as welcoming as Saturday morning cartoons. Occasionally, I create my pain in some sick attempt to capture “control”. As of late, my heart feels numb. Days and weeks can pass and I feel nothing. I feel empty and hollow, as if someone ripped my heart away.

It’s been years since I cut myself, or scratched up my arms with my own fingernails. But I do other things to hurt myself, like chewing up my lip, or neurotically picking at my fingers. Bulimia served as a form of self-torture. My life seems like a cycle of self inflicted tribulation.

It’s hard to cry when numb and cold. I’m so wrapped up in my private battle with demons that I don’t notice the world around me. I don’t see the pain of others and how my pain and actions affect the world. I can smile and pretend to be okay. The pills somewhat numb the pain, and keep me moving. Sleep becomes my world…. My escape. I can sleep for hours, and for days. Why wake up? Life hurts too much sometimes.

I feel unlovable. I am forever the unwanted little girl waiting on the doorstep for daddy to come rescue me. Love hurts and causes you to hurt. Unconditional love from a child seems such a safe love. But that hurts too because they grow up and leave, and then you are alone.

Until I slay my demons, I can never mature past the wounded child. Staying numb, walking wounded, isolating, existing but not living, not again loving. This may be the easy path

This is me, and how I think. If it disturbs you to read this, then by all means, click the box and leave. I blog to vent, to write, to heal. This is my cheap therapy. With my computer connection being so fucked up its impossible to enjoy an online life. I’m sad because I really love a lot of the bloggers, and I so enjoy reading other writing. However, living online as much as I did distracted me from dealing with my life. So maybe it’s a good that I am somewhat cut-off. In any case, I do appreciate people reading me, listening, and being supportive. I’m sorry I’m not able to return the support.

For now I’m stuck dealing with my life, and how I’m going to live it alone. I never had to think about that, being a single mom for so long. Some days I’m excited, other times I’m fucking scared out of my mind. Thanksgiving was rough; my family drama combined with not having my son.

But pain feels good I suppose. Otherwise I would stop getting into relationships that hurt me. That’s why I think its safer not to let anyone get too close. Though I would love to be held right now and feel the warmth of someone’s rescuing arms, I think its better to do this on my own. There is strength and pride in knowing you can save yourself. Lord knows Prince Charming fairy tales just don’t come true. Not for bad girls like me at least.

Writing serves as my form of exorcising demons. I can release my rage, anger, sorrows and pain. Putting into words my raw emotions, expunges the dead debris of forgotten yesterdays. Tonight, I will sleep, waking tomorrow with a new day to heal.

I wish I could take tha pain away
If you can make it through tha night, there's a brighter day
everything'll be alright if ya hold on
it's a struggle
everyday gotta roll on
and there's no way I can pay ya back
but my plan is ta show ya that I understand
you are appreciated.......
-Tupac "Dear Momma"

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