Keeping Secrets

I have a distinct feeling that I will regret doing this in the morning.

Yet,
here I am.

Trying to keep myself sane and happy all without the coping methods that kept me sane and happy for nearly 8 years. I cannot hurt myself anymore. I cannot eat myself into oblivion anymore. I cannot sleep, cannot overdose on sleeping pills, cannot ignore this reality that is becoming at once all too real and all too unreal.

I have this boyfriend, amazing great guy. He loves me too much to see me hurt myself. I have a craptastic thyroid that means if I look at a piece of chocolate cake I gain ten pounds. I have a life now; bills, an apartment, a job, a curriculum at school I actually kinda care about. Fucking responsibility. I am absolutely terrified.

I don't know how to deal with this. I want to crawl back into my happy little world where I could hide inside psych facilities and have someone else tell me what to do. Who is going to tell me what to do now? I can't make these life decisions on my own. I am not a grown up, not yet. I feel like a small child playing pretend with their mom's old checkbook and high heels. This life I live right now doesn't feel as real as the fantasies that consume me.

Oh but dear lord how I want to hide. I dream about it, giving up all that I have worked for to forever live under the care of some tech, some doctor, some nurse. But I can't do that anymore. I have obligations. I have a partner now who has his hands tied up in everything I do. If I don't go to work, he suffers. If I drop out of school, he suffers. If I die, he dies. Goddamn these responsibilities. I want to hurt myself so badly that it consumes me even on my good days, the days I'm happy and normal and not myself. I want to destroy something beautiful. I want to break bone and rip muscle. Going to the gym helps, but I know that in the end that is more constructive than it is destructive.

No one knows I feel this way. Why should they? It will just hurt them more than it hurts me. I can deal with it, somehow. I always have. Despite my frequent breakdowns, I'm stronger than I let on. I believe that anyone else in my shoes would have collapsed a long time ago. I either under or over exaggerate my problems and the longer I stick around the more it seems like the former. But, the million dollar question is: What exaclty is wrong with me?

Am I nervous? Yes.
Am I depressed? Yes.
Am I psychotic? Who knows
Am I OCD? Probably
Am I manic? Potentially
Am I delusional? So they say
Am I unstable? Of course

But mostly, I am a liar, and a damn good one. Best at keeping secrets and carving myself into a disgusting work of art. Oh, I know what you are thinking. Look at this emo kid whining about their terrible life. Cutting their wrist with a safety pin and licking up the blood like a deranged vampire wanna be.

But, dear anon, I am far removed from that world. I have lived though poverty, I have been homeless, I have been neglected and abused. I have seen my father go crazy and my mother attempt suicide. I have lived in a car as both a child and adult, gone without food or water or heat, I have been raped by those who supposedly love me, used and thrown away, I have been lonely my whole life. I have not lived in an easy world.

What's worse is my reaction. I don't think you've ever seen someone like me. I am covered with scars, not just faint white lines, no. Not little scratches you can barely see. Oh no. Huge, grotesque, raised scars that itch when they heal because of the nerves I have damaged. I cannot feel part of my arm now. Other parts tingle uncomfortably when I touch them. People don't notice the color of my hair or my piercings or tattoos when they see me, they see my scars. Hundreds, even thousands. They are covering every visible inch of my arms, my legs; I have harmed myself on every part of my body that i can reach. My hands are the worst, the scars there are large and remind me every day what bone looks like. I get the most comments about those. I know people wonder, why somewhere so visible? Most cutters cut where you cannot see it. No, I want the world to see. The scar on my face would be the most notable, but most people cannot fathom the idea of deliberately cutting your own face, so they all assume something other than that fact. But I did, I did cut my face. Horribly. The scar is large and unmistakable. Just like the ones on my hands. Sure, they believe me when I say it is because of glass and a car accident, but that is because no one can believe someone sane would do that to themselves.

I do seem sane. I do a good job looking the part. But just underneath....