Destruction of Storytelling

Torment and tension. That feeling that makes you desires to jump off a bridge or harm someone. You can’t escape it. It’s like a drug addiction you want out of your blood stream but it’s so tainted that it’s impossible to eliminate. If you’re at what they, the wicked ones, call a “stable mind,” then those feelings come once every blue moon and leaves. To the rest of us in a bit more reality, it’s stuck there. You can be anywhere, at anytime and the wrong person or event can turn your mind into a war. They wonder why you hate everyone. We never explain, if we do they’ll just laugh more. It’s never a win in the mind of the tormented.

My haven is my mind and notebook. Like the breaking of a dam, my words and thoughts burst on to the paper. However, it hasn’t always been that way.

When I really did use to get those violent strains, they’d last for hours or days. My refuge was still my mind but I had alternatives to clear my mind. I’d attempt to write on paper but it never seemed to help. Instead I wrote on my arm with a blade. The crimson lines on my arms held and told many stories of sorrow. Long ones told of calamity and rejection. Diminutive ones told of those I wished to hurt. Nobody could read them but me. Also, as much to my control, no one could see them but me. I had no access to drugs, or alcohol. To the blind eye I wasn’t doing anything bad. I didn’t find it bad either. Just a habit, like biting your nails or cracking your knuckles. It was nothing.

I got caught once by the guidance councilor, but it only made things worse. I’m one of those girls who will listen to no one and force just makes me do the opposite more. I could no longer write stories on my popular left arm anymore. Instead, I started different places such as my leg and chest. No one significant, the ones that would try to help, ever knew. As long as I could write my aching stories I was pleased. The evil ones wanting to take it away meant they sought to make me more miserable. I did well to avoid the councilors as much as possible. They knew nothing, that’s why they’re councilors, not shrinks. I’m not sure when or how but I started to realize how bad of a habit it was becoming. To not open my flesh was almost torture, and had become my cigarette. It took the help of two guys I looked up to, to make me see that. I was loosing the respects of them, and it made me take a look at what I was doing. I gradually started realizing that the shelter I found in my mind was actually the destruction of me.

The mind can be a magnificent or appalling thing. Some hate it. Whether it is because it confuses them, or makes them be someone they aren’t. Some adore it. It serves as a hideaway, beautiful things come from it, and it’s the source of living. No matter how you look at it, the mind is like life, you have to deal with it. It unfortunate many of us can’t deal with it. All you’re ever warned about is drugs, alcohol and sex. No one sees the newest crisis that is more ordinary then anyone would think: self-molestation. I’ve been told of people dying from it, I know too many people who do it, but I’m proud to have survived it.