Ceromonial Knife

I cut the palm of my left hand last night.  It was with a beautiful knife I found on the ground, while walking with my daughter and grandoggy.  I remember my daughter saying, “Don’t pick that up! Who knows what it was used for and it is dirty.”  It really is a beautiful switchblade. 

So Tuesday will be the fifth month since I lost my dad.  Did I mention it was in a roll over accident?  I can’t remember and I don’t re-read my posts.  My posts are the emotions of a given moment.  Not to be relived again by re-reading. Of course I do end up reliving those emotions again because my life, my pain, my self-hatred, is a circle.

So at this moment I am about to take a nap before my test over 4 chapters.  I am taking an online course to be a medical biller and coder.  At the same time that I am in training for a new job. My brain hurts 😒  

I am wearing my dad’s West Virginia Coal Miner’s cap and hugging his Washington Redskins teddy bear.  I miss him. My daughter says I am sacrificing my mental health with this job.  I am not permitted to miss a day of training.  I have not seen my psychologist in two months.  I wonder if he thinks I am dead. Maybe he doesn’t think of me at all. 

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Understanding Self-Harm

Happy and Dying Inside

My daughter reached a milestone in her life.  She has worked so hard to get her Masters degree.  She has gone through the 3000 hours of internship and worked two jobs all the while.  She has worked with troubled girls, some who have issues similar to mine.  She is finally about to get her license in three weeks.

I have never been so proud and happy.  Yet out of the blue, an unexpected pain hit me like an 18 wheeler.  I wish my dad, her PaPa, had been alive to see it.  He died on December 3, 2015. Three months and six days ago.  It was in a horrible truck accident.

Anyway, she had left to go to the gym Monday.  Out of nowhere I broke down sobbing. Last night I could not sleep. I grabbed my trusty knife and began cutting in between my fingers and the palm of my left hand. 

I have been trying to recall a time when I felt such joy and such pain simultaneously. Perhaps during her childbirth?  I don’t know. I do find it interesting and have noted before, that the children she counsels  have a lot of issues similar to mine.

I am 54 years old, but when it comes to coping with emotions I am still 14.  The age I was when my mother died.  The age I was when I started self harming. I have been stuck for four decades.

On a positive note, I had reached a point where I wasn’t doing it daily.  I still drink everyday to lessen the noise in my head. In my mind, drinking is the lesser of the two evils.  I don’t get drunk, just buzzed.  Buzzed enough to help me stay numb. Buzzed enough to help me, “go away,” so to speak.  I don’t go out as I am a little old for that. I drink at home….okay that was a rationalization. “I don’t go out as I am a little old for that.”

I go out as little as possible.  I prefer my bat cave to being around people.  Being around people means pretending there is nothing wrong with me.  Pretending is fucking exhausting.