This morning I was reminded that I’m not alone. Wait…I think I mentioned that in a previous post. Yeah, there are eleventy-billion 20 foot holes out there. So, to be clearer, I learned the name of one of my fellow mine-shaft dwellers. Her tweet regarding a particularly painful post (ooohhh, alliteration!) was retweeted by two of my favorite tweeps, @wilw (Wil Wheaton) and @jerilryan (Jeri Ryan). So I read it. You can read it here.
What especially caught my eye was the reference to self-harm and the memories it brought back. I used to self-harm back in college. It’s been twenty years since I took a knife to my arm, but you can still make out tiny little scars on one of them. These memories stir up some sadness and anger. Sadness that at 20 I felt so lost I thought that would help, and angry that there were people close to me who saw the cuts and believed my extremely-stupid-in-hindsight-like-lying-to-my-mother-about-smoking-when-she-could-smell-my-nicotine-stench excuse that “the cat scratched me”. Wait, what cat? I didn’t have a cat living with me at college. And what cat leaves perpendicular lines on ones shoulder? A very tidy cat. OCD cat. One that uses a t-square.
As I said, it’s been 20 years since I self-harmed. With a knife, anyway. I quit self-harming with bourbon 6 years ago. I still self-harm with food, but I’m working on it.
Kudos to you, @thebloggess, for sharing that with the class.
Oh, and she lists “the Texas hill country” as her turf. Shout out to my homies in Kerrville. Give love to my mom when you see her in her gold Prius tooling around town.