{trigger warning: detailed description of self-harm particularly mutilation}
How can you atone for an incorrect existence?
I spent most of my life believing that something had gone horribly wrong, and as a result I was born.
No one said otherwise.
The effort to atone for my incorrect existence quickly became the only way I felt any relief from the pressure of it.
The first time it happened, it was instinctual like I just knew it was the solution. As the torment rose in my chest, I held the key with my right hand. There it was. Metal pressed against the twelve-year-old-softness of my left arm. I pushed and pulled as the tiny slivers of clear skin rolled away. Pushed and pulled until the skin turned from white to pink. Pushed and pulled until I saw red.
And the storm calmed.
Warm relief like I’d never experienced washed over me.
And that was that.
Soon, I was sneaking into the garage for razor blades and stashing scissors in shoe boxes.
I was much more comfortable with a secret I could control than one I couldn’t. I knew where the razors were. I had a whole system in place- once edged in red, they go in stack number two. Reuse was reserved for a deeper anguish.
Much less controllable was my existence.
But, I could create tangible wounds out of the invisible ones. Then, I could bandage them. Look at them when I needed to know I existed. When I needed to know how bad I was. But, how I’d made up for it.
Most of the time I began in fury, with thoughts and feelings bigger than my body could hold. Too much had happened, with nothing to show on the outside.
Grown-man hands on ten year old skin. Eleven year old skin. Twelve…
Abandonment and threats.
Names and laughter.
Alcohol, closed doors and dark rooms.
Finally, red. Relief, from all these things.
This is the part I have decided is too much for you to know, church. The part I’m not sure you’ll still accept me after hearing. Although it seems you might be the one who ought to understand more than anyone.
Last I heard, Jesus’ death was a pretty bloody ordeal.
Last I heard, the most important part of your story is flesh- ripped and torn.
The final act, the part we all close our eyes and lower our heads for is Jesus’ side being pierced.
Each time I hear the sermon detailing Christ’s death, I wonder. As the pastor stretches his arms open and speaks slowly and quietly about that last part, Jesus’ pierced side, I wonder if he’d be this comfortable with my flesh-tearing story. I always know he won’t be, but I wonder anyway.
are bras included?
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