Amanda Failure Princess

this is difficult for me to write. well, what i mean is it is difficult right now because it feels so relevant. normally, i can disclose, poke, and joke even the most serious affliction into submission, including the one at hand. i like talking about personal things, exposing the darkest parts of myself to even a crack of light, but it’s hard to talk about this thing because of the stigma that’s attached, because everyone thinks of it as a cry for help or attention without bothering to ask anyone who actually did/does it…

but i have to write about it right now because i have been thinking about it constantly, and obsessing. i have this theory that if you write something down it’s like giving birth to it, the aging process can begin, and it begins to die. whenever i get a song stuck in my head i don’t want, i write it down over and over and over again.

so here goes.

from high school into my early twenties, i spent the majority of my time alone tearing into my skin. it was not tres dramatique a la jenny on the L Word or anything… well, not usually. there were two ways it would go down. sometimes i would come home from a night of hanging out with my friends and feel so overwhelmingly numb. i would light a candle, put on some music, get out my little notebook, and slash the insides of my arms or legs until i could cry. other times i would start out in hysterics. one thing or another had set me off and i was crying uncontrollably. the only thing that could stop the tears was the blood, and afterwards i would sit there staring off, with mascara running down my cheeks, finally peaceful.

a lot of times i would carve words and phrases into my arms and ankles. i always thought people who burned themselves were nuts (funny), but then i got into heating up pins and the head of a lighter and searing it in. that was kind of more of an instant hit of endorphins, much less symbolic for me than the bleeding, healing, and scaring of a razor cut.

the thing is, it was never a cry for attention for me. more of a reminder that i was a real fucking person, flesh and blood, and not the monsterous nothing i felt like, every single day.

which brings us to the present. the last three years of my life, and in particular the last year or so, i have moved forward in ways i never imagined. these things come easily to most people, but i avoided them mostly because i didn’t expect to or want to live this long at all. i kind of just went through life thinking of myself as a funny little experiment, like, “what kind of crap will she make of this situation? tune in tomorrow to find out!” i don’t know what finally changed, but i guess i have felt more like a real person in the last few years than i ever have, since i was a child.

that is to say, until recently. i feel so not like myself lately, i don’t know what to do. and i all i really want to do is be distracted, but i feel like the constant distractions are what is making me crazy in the first place. yet i am scared to be alone with myself because i’m afraid of what i might do (cut) or maybe even more afraid of what i might not do (write).

i’ve not felt the urge to hurt myself in YEARS, just so that is clear. and suddenly feeling it now is terrifying to me because i remember the last time i did it and how disappointed and disgusting i felt the next day. it was about two years ago now, maybe, and i drank a bunch of whiskey (first offense) then got into a horrible argument with two of my friends about love and how i don’t believe in it. i was being nasty and they were being nasty and it was just a huge mess. i was living with my mom at the time and when i got home i went straight to the backyard. i knelt down beneath the barren lemon tree on the wet grass, sobbing and cursing whoever made me. the only thing i had was a lighter so i flicked it on and held it until the metal part turned yellow-orange, then pressed it into my forearm again and again making partial circles, like the moon, and wishing the moon could see me, too.

i woke up sick and sore and vowed never to do it again. it hadn’t worked like it used to, anyway, and i felt worse instead of better.

i just need to keep reminding myself of this. i’m reading a book right now called the IHOP papers by ali liebegott, who read an excerpt from said book at the sister spit: next generation reading at the gspot a few months ago. she was amazing. her book is hilarious and sad, and so true. the only thing is there are some cutting scenes and i didn’t know about that when i started reading it. they are very tasteful and well-written, which is essential, but still, i am finding it somewhat triggering. i don’t want to stop reading the book though, so really, that is part of why i am writing this here. to get it out, to fire a warning shot to myself.

in the interest of full disclosure, i am a recovering self-injurer, dear reader, it’s true, in more ways than one. i suppose life can’t be all lipgloss, winecoolers, and pussy. i don’t feel very confident right now, so i don’t know how to end on an inspirational note… except to say i do feel somewhat better after writing this, and thanks for reading it.