![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
beandelphikiI always feel so terribly self-conscious about entries right after someone adds me. Invariably, I will not have ranted about something for a while, and the next day, I want to rant. "Oh man, what's that new person going to think? 'I added this weirdo?'"
And now I am going to write an entry about how messed up I am. Yup. But because I feel self-conscious, cut!
WARNING: I realize after I wrote this that if someone actually reads this this may be triggering for some people. I don't know, I'm generally a bad judge. Please hit the Back button at your own discretion. Thanks.
I spottered a quiz in![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
emptygirl's journal and went to go take it. "What Personality Disorder do you have?"
Well, I got to the first question, and discovered I COULDN'T ANSWER, because too many answers might fit my response, depending on the day.
The question, and my answers in bold:
A waiter at a restaurant gives you a dirty look when he refills your drink.
Oh God. I bet my drink is now poisoned!
I don't care for resteraunts. Too many people. [sic]
I'll KILL that bastard!
Why doesn't he just take a frickin' PICTURE?!
I want my mommy...
Oh, I think we must have hated each other in a past life...
He's mad because I didn't say thank you! I didn't mean to offend...I just froze up and said nothing!
I'm going to complain to the manager...!
NOW what? God, why does everyone hate me?
What? WHAT?! Is there something on my face?
Yes, I must really be messed. *droop*
But I chose one of my possible results, the one that sounded the best:
Which Personality Disorder Do You Have?
brought to you by Quizilla
That's funny, because I've always thought borderline personality disorder sounded so much like me. Bursting into bouts of rage and self-mutilation are definitely me.
*eyes his arm*
Last week, I whipped out a knife and staring cutting my arm with it. Right in class! I'm shocked no one noticed me doing it - I was petrified someone would. I kept looking around while I held the knife to my wrist, and no one was ever looking. They were all focused on the prof, giving some lecture on realism in the theatre, or some boring thing like that.
I used to think I had cutting under control, but maybe I don't if I will do something like that.
I used to cut when I was mad, when I had all this rage I had to get out, so I would get it out through blood. That was when it was under control. Now I cut when I'm upset at myself for making some stupid mistake; sometimes I just can't let that mistake go until I cut. So it rules me now.
This not a good thing, because the last time my mom caught me with slashes on my arm, she threw me into the wall and told me that if she ever saw new ones, she'd go through my room and take everything sharp away from me. I wanted to tell her that it wouldn't help. I know myself too well. If I wanted to hurt myself, I could beat my head on the wall, or bite and scratch. I've done that, too. The only way to stop me from hurting myself when I really want to is to put me in restraints, in a padded room or something.
That's what I wanted to say.
Instead, I told her I'd never do it again.
Because, what difference would it make?
I'm thinking of how, when I was fifteen, I bought myself an X-acto knife. It was never to cut myself with. That was never the plan. I bought it so I could threaten my dad with it the next time he hit my sister. I kept seeing myself backing him down with that pitiful little knife.
But it never happened; I was too much of a realist - and possibly, too much of a coward - to try it. I think of how my sister grew up, and I have so much guilt there. She used to get whacked while I sat at the kitchen table and read the paper, blocking it out, thinking - what could I do, anyway? I tried to get in the way sometimes, and I just got hit instead. I know futility when I see it. That's why I never used the knife.
Not on my father, anyway.
One day, I reported my parents.
I told my guidance counselor, and sat there in her office while she called Social Services and reported suspected abuse. She told me she'd probably get a call back the next day, or the day after that. I waited, in agony, to be called down to her office again.
It took a month.
When she finally called me down, it was to tell me that Social Services had finally called back, and they had nothing. They had called my sister's teacher and inquired about bruises; I knew that there wouldn't be a report on anything. "Sorry," they said. "No evidence, sorry."
I cut that night. I was so mad, so destroyed. I had gone in there and even told my counselor I never got hit myself. Because I wanted to seem so in control, not messed up and looking for attention. I wanted to be taken seriously.
I thought, "Take THIS! I can be messed up now!" And I cut up my arm. It burns hot, but it doesn't really hurt. And I drew black and red lines all over my arms with pen to symbolize hate and rage. Everyone thought I was a total freak, but I knew what it meant.
And that knife was the one I bought, the little X-acto knife, and part of the rage that went into my flesh that night had to do with the fact that I knew that was the only thing that knife would ever be good for.
Just hurting myself.
And now I am going to write an entry about how messed up I am. Yup. But because I feel self-conscious, cut!
WARNING: I realize after I wrote this that if someone actually reads this this may be triggering for some people. I don't know, I'm generally a bad judge. Please hit the Back button at your own discretion. Thanks.
I spottered a quiz in
emptygirl's journal and went to go take it. "What Personality Disorder do you have?"Well, I got to the first question, and discovered I COULDN'T ANSWER, because too many answers might fit my response, depending on the day.
The question, and my answers in bold:
A waiter at a restaurant gives you a dirty look when he refills your drink.
Oh God. I bet my drink is now poisoned!
I don't care for resteraunts. Too many people. [sic]
I'll KILL that bastard!
Why doesn't he just take a frickin' PICTURE?!
I want my mommy...
Oh, I think we must have hated each other in a past life...
He's mad because I didn't say thank you! I didn't mean to offend...I just froze up and said nothing!
I'm going to complain to the manager...!
NOW what? God, why does everyone hate me?
What? WHAT?! Is there something on my face?
Yes, I must really be messed. *droop*
But I chose one of my possible results, the one that sounded the best:
Which Personality Disorder Do You Have?
brought to you by Quizilla
That's funny, because I've always thought borderline personality disorder sounded so much like me. Bursting into bouts of rage and self-mutilation are definitely me.
*eyes his arm*
Last week, I whipped out a knife and staring cutting my arm with it. Right in class! I'm shocked no one noticed me doing it - I was petrified someone would. I kept looking around while I held the knife to my wrist, and no one was ever looking. They were all focused on the prof, giving some lecture on realism in the theatre, or some boring thing like that.
I used to think I had cutting under control, but maybe I don't if I will do something like that.
I used to cut when I was mad, when I had all this rage I had to get out, so I would get it out through blood. That was when it was under control. Now I cut when I'm upset at myself for making some stupid mistake; sometimes I just can't let that mistake go until I cut. So it rules me now.
This not a good thing, because the last time my mom caught me with slashes on my arm, she threw me into the wall and told me that if she ever saw new ones, she'd go through my room and take everything sharp away from me. I wanted to tell her that it wouldn't help. I know myself too well. If I wanted to hurt myself, I could beat my head on the wall, or bite and scratch. I've done that, too. The only way to stop me from hurting myself when I really want to is to put me in restraints, in a padded room or something.
That's what I wanted to say.
Instead, I told her I'd never do it again.
Because, what difference would it make?
I'm thinking of how, when I was fifteen, I bought myself an X-acto knife. It was never to cut myself with. That was never the plan. I bought it so I could threaten my dad with it the next time he hit my sister. I kept seeing myself backing him down with that pitiful little knife.
But it never happened; I was too much of a realist - and possibly, too much of a coward - to try it. I think of how my sister grew up, and I have so much guilt there. She used to get whacked while I sat at the kitchen table and read the paper, blocking it out, thinking - what could I do, anyway? I tried to get in the way sometimes, and I just got hit instead. I know futility when I see it. That's why I never used the knife.
Not on my father, anyway.
One day, I reported my parents.
I told my guidance counselor, and sat there in her office while she called Social Services and reported suspected abuse. She told me she'd probably get a call back the next day, or the day after that. I waited, in agony, to be called down to her office again.
It took a month.
When she finally called me down, it was to tell me that Social Services had finally called back, and they had nothing. They had called my sister's teacher and inquired about bruises; I knew that there wouldn't be a report on anything. "Sorry," they said. "No evidence, sorry."
I cut that night. I was so mad, so destroyed. I had gone in there and even told my counselor I never got hit myself. Because I wanted to seem so in control, not messed up and looking for attention. I wanted to be taken seriously.
I thought, "Take THIS! I can be messed up now!" And I cut up my arm. It burns hot, but it doesn't really hurt. And I drew black and red lines all over my arms with pen to symbolize hate and rage. Everyone thought I was a total freak, but I knew what it meant.
And that knife was the one I bought, the little X-acto knife, and part of the rage that went into my flesh that night had to do with the fact that I knew that was the only thing that knife would ever be good for.
Just hurting myself.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2002-11-11 01:44 am (UTC)I've never cut...just pierced myself in weird places before (such as my arm, or hand web and such..just to feel the pain and ensure myself that I was in control still, if that makes any sense. I'm not sure it's the same thing you described.
What you posted makes me sad...I guess I've just come to envision you as so strong willed and insightful and wise, and to think that things like this affect you...well I've already said it, makes me sad. I don't mean anything bad whatsoever with that, I don't know, dammit, it's so hard to explain. None of this seemed to come out right.
That was just pure incompetence on the social services part!! >:( Why in the hell would a person seek help for something of that particular nature if it wasn't really happening?? Man. The system is so useless it seems to me anymore. I'm sorry you had to go through all that shit. Some things that happen in this world...some of these things honestly make me question my faith at times. I'm not going to say "I hope you feel better soon" right now, I feel like that's bullshit. It sounds too fake or something. I do hope however, you can get these episodes under control, if only somewhat, and not do any major damage.
*hugs*. :(
(no subject)
Date: 2002-11-11 07:28 pm (UTC)Well, people hurt themselves for a LOT of different reasons, and feeling in control is one of the most common. I wouldn't say that that is you - I think there is always a certain range of things outside "normal" that are still okay. (For example, I wouldn't want someone to be attacked in the street, but I see nothing wrong with S&M.)
What you posted makes me sad...I guess I've just come to envision you as so strong willed and insightful and wise, and to think that things like this affect you...well I've already said it, makes me sad.
I guess it would make anyone sad to see real human weakness in someone they thought was strong. I don't know, I've never really thought of myself as strong-willed or wise. I think I can really understand people sometimes - a lot of people have commented on my being perceptive - and I think I have grit, but that's it.
I always have to be the "brave" one in my family though, maybe I front.
That was just pure incompetence on the social services part!! >:( Why in the hell would a person seek help for something of that particular nature if it wasn't really happening?? Man. The system is so useless it seems to me anymore.
I know that the system is SO strained. And that is because there are SO many people that hurt their kids. But also, there are a lot of false reports, and SS can't follow up on every one. I know these people honestly try their best.
And really, when they get involved - that's the law getting in there. And when it's just emotional abuse, or you can't PROVE anything with bruises, or whatever, they kind of have to leave you. Because they can't do anything, it won't hold up in court. And there are always more cases of kids being raped or really hurt badly (like to the point of death.)
I understood that at the time; I don't know, I was just frustrated at the whole world for making it impossible for me to have the power to change anything.
Oh, and I don't think I'll be doing any major damage. *hugs back*
Thank you.