Inner life. (pt. 2)

It is perfect. The most excellent, complex, barricade. Everything they said would be like rain on a window. Just splattering and dripping in entwining courses. Never entering. Never penetrating. I am bitter, sarcastic, cynical, defiant, and my wall helps keep me that way. Or should I say that I keep my wall that way? 1

I tried it out for the first time this evening, when I back lashed my mom. It worked pretty well, but her words tonight weren't as harsh as some others I had dealt with. So this was really only a test run. 2

She got angry with me and I pulled it up; a gray, stone wall that I could almost imagine as real, separating me from her as we drew the battle lines in our living room. 3

I heard what she said, but my mind refused to register and process the meaning, as if she were speaking in a foreign language. I have a feeling I will be trying this new defense out on dad soon. But if it does not work I have recently resorted to cutting myself, which might help me deal. 4

It started as an odd fascination. I was curious to see how it felt. I found a tiny screw (knowing any larger object would be missed due to my mother’s eagle observation techniques) and I dug the sharp tip into my arm. 5

I repeated this process until it cut deep enough to draw some blood, it wasn’t a gushing wound, my skin is too thick and would need something sharper to do that much damage. I was not satisfied by the results. It did hurt, but for some reason, I didn’t mind the pain. 6

So I moved to my forearm, where my skin was thinner, and cut there. This one was deeper and longer and more blood seeped through the wound. I put the screw down and inspected my self-inflicted injuries, suddenly noticing that my sleeve wasn’t long enough to cover the smaller cut. 7

I sent up a quick prayer that my folks wouldn’t inquire about it if they noticed. Damn hot summer, mom would kill me if she caught me wearing a turtleneck. 8

Tonight is the second time I cut myself, this time with something sharper, though it wouldn’t be missed either. 9

Wire clippers. They had a piercing slice and took less effort to cause desired effect. My bitter mask was set in place again, and a cold, mellow feeling spread over me. Now I understood why others did this, it made them feel better, or at least detached from their problems, if only for a while. 10

Although, unlike other people, I am quite sure it wont become an addiction for me. Then again, who knows what could happen that might change that in an instant. Maybe it’s the physical pain that makes cutting yourself so intriguing, it’s a way to express the pain you feel inside. 11

And it can also be a symbolic way of releasing your emotions as the crimson droplets spill down your flesh, leaving a trail of red on your body. 12

Every time I look at my recently acquired scars, I feel a sense of pride, as if I’m a soldier looking at a war mark, remembering something terrible that happened to give her or him that wound that signaled he or she survived whatever hardship caused the reminder. 13

Perhaps it’s wrong to compare my mental battle wounds to that of a soldiers, but I can’t help that it feels as if I survived some sort of war and came out the victor. At least until the next time. 14