Science lab (TW)

Its the 21st century.

We are now a generation that have been exposed to the idea of prioritising self love.

And I believe it is very important. But no one teaches or tells you how to turn hate into love.

I grew up in a time that emotions and crying and acting like a little girl was a prominent and common term.

Growing up in a very strong female led household it has always been a very important idea to me. The idea of being strong , we were not taught to highlight emotions or to reach for happiness.

It was disregarded it was important to be successful and strong. Especially as a woman.

As a abuse survivor – I hate , despise that term , being categorised into a section of people that are all so different. It is nothing but belittling. And the term survivor in itself – Im have been and I am surviving – but that is all nothing more or nothing less.

But right now that term helps articulate what I am getting to.

Having that label hanging over you , its even more important for me to view myself as strong whatever that term means.

I was a 12 year old child psychically and to the world , but in mind I was past my years.

School , secondary school is already hard in its own way, but the whole school talking discussing your life. Your trauma.

Well that was hard.

The one person I confided in had shared my pain in the most evil way – she shared it because a boy she liked , liked me.

She put my pain on display but not out of kindness out of cruelty.

All over social media .

For my fellow class mates and older peers , for my teachers & superiors.

I can still recall being summoned from class into my head of years office to see my mum reading over print out of this public humiliation. I was made to feel dirty.

Shameful.

If I cried , showed any form of weakness a teacher was by my side , either off their own back or the ones that were just doing their job after a concern fellow 12 year old had alerted them of my feelings. It was important to me to not break.

At home . I knew my family were hurting from the backlash. Blame , confusion and pain filled our walls whilst being painted in unrealistic grins and smiles.

At school . I was on show , my feelings , my story.

A kind teacher I shall not name let me sit in his room from time to time , the times I needed to escape.

A girl , I could name but has no relevance.

I remember her vividly.

We went to primary school together too, she was one year my elder but had always intrigued me.

She would also sometime be in this teachers classroom , the science lab.

I watched her , at lunch , and her friends , I observed them from my quiet corner.

Constantly breaking rules , time after time.

One day I observed her talking to her friends about pain.

I watched the way she dismantled a pencil sharpener from her pencil case.

I recited the motions in my mind.

Why would she do such a thing ?

I then watched her swiftly swipe the tiny ,half rusty – half shiny ,but apparent blade across her arm. I watched her arm slice and the blood rise.

That memory stayed safe in my mind , stays safe in my mind.

Later than day I arrived home alone in my room with nothing but my thoughts , I too reached for my pencil case.

I recited her actions.

It hurt , but it also felt good. I watched the thin runny red substance form droplets and fall to my wooden floor boards.

It left me confused but happy, the juxtapose in emotions left me overwhelmed but at-least I could feel something. I felt alive rather than surviving by a thread.

I never needed to cry once I had my new best friend in my arms, in my control , in my power. And I wasnt weak for doing so , in my mind I believed it made me strong as the only person that could feel the consequences to my actions was myself.

In this moment I believed I could protect the world from me From my weakness. From my pain. From my shame. From my broken mind and body.

I rolled my sleeves down and made my way downstairs due to the calls of my mother alerting me dinner was ready. In that moment I felt strong and in control – I was not crying like a little girl , I was bleeding like a strong man.

This was my new secret.

My new routine.

Not for the world.

Not for others.

Not open to judgement.

But this was something for me , something only me and my body knew about.

And for that reason I am so protective of you my little habit , so committed & so loving to you .

Because you in a dark way saved me when no one else could. You and only you allowed me to breathe whilst being suffocated.

Now I need someone/ something to teach me how to hate the reason I was able to love myself. This character needs to be eliminated , but I know Im going to have to teach myself how to breath without assistance.

再nd I will be lying if I said I wasnt scared but to commit to the idea of self love , my oxygen tank needs to be switched off.

I am nothing but aware .

And willing.

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Addiction. (Trigger warning)

All I want to do is see it.

Maybe I like seeing it more than feeling it.

I want both right now.

Ive been trying so hard to control my urges.

To stop thinking about it all the time. Its an addiction I know that now.

Maybe once before it was less than that.

It was a release.

Now it is both , I want it for the release , but I need it because how else do I deal with life

Some people are addicted to gambling , smoking , drugs of all shapes and sorts.

My little addiction is a secret

No one can know.

I am 26 .

You believe people you can trust , should trust , the people you believe know you, truly know you, could maybe possibly understand.

So you open up.

It never ends well , you either receive pity, an ambulance , the help chat.

Or , I still am unsure what is worse, the slowly but sure distance that becomes wedged between you and the person you believe could try to understand.

Addictions break bridges.

But when the bridges are broken my addictions are what are with me.

Vicious circles.

Every time the addiction isnt fed , you feel as though you have achieved something , something you are so proud of . Something you cant share with anyone.

Anyone.

That proud smug feeling.

But the addiction is still hungry , longing and screaming to be attended to.

Then something, something just anything happens and you excuse yourself to indulge.

That is the cycle of addiction. And I now understand that.

But whilst Im writing this , Im not feeding it. I am desperate to break the cycle , desperate to know myself again without this dark cloud.

Desperate to connect with people without the shame. The thought of this dirty little secret one day being public knowledge.

I wanted to stop writing at this point.

But all I can see in my head it the thought of my scared and damaged writs feeling that feeling.

Looking that way.

Watching the skin break

And the blood rising to the top

Watching the blood darken , clot and dry

And the stinging feeling of pain hate and regret being left on my body.

I wish I could be better , believe I could be better.

I am 26

When will it be better.

12 year old me that once experimented during a science detention with a broken sharpener never imagined being here today.