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by its_petrichor

by its_petrichor

often when I talk about loving myself
I sound like I've given up
like it doesn't get better
like there's no hope

but that's not entirely true

because whenever I think about grabbing a blade and slicing open the delicate skin of my forearm
it makes me sick
I don't think I could do it anymore
no
I don't think I could

over time I seem to have unconsciously stashed that part of me somewhere far away
even though it is not something I can afford
because it's the only reminder I have that things do in fact get better
in time

they do
they really do

imagine recovering from something like that
imagine rising above wanting to make myself bleed in order to feel something
whenever things don't go how I'd wanted them to
whenever I'm bored
whenever I'm hurt
whenever
whenever
all the time

none of that is real anymore
it doesn't even feel like at some point it was
it all seems like a one big lie
like it was someone else's story
not mine

this fight
this devilish urge
it is no longer my reality

I remember a time when I was confident I'd never get to say that
the 15-year-old girl that I was
I was sure there was no way out
and the thought of loving myself
it was one I could not bare

but here I am
I have won
and you know what else I thought I'd never say?

I am proud of my scars
I look down at them sometimes
I run my fingers over them gently
and I am proud
I know them by memory
each of them has a name
a reason
they are stories
they are pain
and they are mine

but on top of everything else
they might be next to the only thing that makes me feel if only for a moment the kind of love for myself that knocks the wind out of me
the kind of love that makes me want to wrap my arms around my own self
to hold on to this sacred body of mine and never let go

self-harm is a choice you make without realising that you have made it
and oftentimes it is already too late when you understand what you've done
everything that comes after that
well
you can only pray fate will have mercy on you

but even then
if you asked me whether I would take it back if I could
I don't think I would
I would never want to go through that ever again
but I have
I did
and I'm grateful that did

because then I wouldn't know the things I know now
I wouldn't know what kind of strength resides within me
I wouldn't know that along with being incurably sick and depressed and having a broken family and various eating disorders
I could also survive the emotional terror of seeing myself bleed by my own hand
over and over again

as of now
I am exactly a year and a half away from my last cut
it's weird
but I remember as I made it
I knew it would be my last

I don't know what happened to me
I guess something just shifted
suddenly I was so fed up with that part of myself
I was so done
I remember feeling like it was time to grow up
almost like it was just a phase
looking back
but it was not

I stand on the other side now
all grown up and in college
and I look back at that teenage girl
no I look her straight in the eyes
and I assure her

your fight is not a phase
your fight is not fleeting
your fight matters
it matters to you
sitting here on your ugly green carpet
and it matters to me
three years from now in my own apartment
studying language and becoming everything you don't believe you could ever become