Rescue Me

(Rescue Me - Kerrie Roberts)

This waking nightmare lingers

When will the mirror stop telling lies?

I don't know where I've been or where I'm going

But I can't do it alone

I'm reaching out

Rescue me

Show me who I am

'Cause I can't believe this is how the story ends

Fight for me

If it's not too late

Help me breathe again

No, this can't be how the story ends

I'm wrapped up and waiting for you

I've lost so much more than I'll ever know

The past, the truth forgotten

Find me now, before I lose it all

I'm crying out

Rescue me

Show me who I am

'Cause I can't believe this is how the story ends

Fight for me

If it's not too late

Help me breathe again

No, this can't be how the story ends...

I just want to matter

I just want to matter to someone. I want to be someone's top priority for once. I want someone to put as much effort into me as I put into them. It really hurts to know that I'm not important to anyone and that I'll never be someone's first choice. No matter how much someone loves me, I'll still always be their lowest priority. No one will ever go out of their way for me. No one will really miss me or be afraid of losing me. No one will show me that they care about me and love me, they'll just say it. Empty words. I don't believe in words anymore. I can't. I only believe in actions, and even then I'm skeptical because everyone seems to have ulterior motives when it comes to me. Even my therapist keeps saying that I can't listen to what people say because it has such an extremely devastating effect on me when they say something and do something else than what they originally said and it tips me off the edge of the map.

I wish someone would really care about me. I wish I had someone who would do sweet things and give me attention and affection and cuddle with me and kiss me and go out of their way to meet me and make me happy. In other words, to do what I would do for them. I want to be shown that I'm loved and wanted and cared for, not told that I am.

Two handfuls of reasons why

(Right forearm, July 2012)

This entry contains one graphic and possibly triggering picture hidden under a spoiler-button.

Both of the pictures in this entry are of me. This is a very personal matter to me. 

Please read with respect.

I first cut myself when I was about 12 years old. I had heard about it, and I was curious as to how cutting your own skin could help when you were sad. I figured I might try it. Dumb decision. If I had known what I know now, I wouldn't have done it, but what do you expect from a 12 year old? As I've grown older, the reasons for why I do it have increased and changed. Reasons for why I resorted to self harm as a way to cope.

I say that I started at age 12. I had been biting the skin around my fingernails and pulled my hair out since I was maybe 8-9 years old, first as a bad habit, and then due to the relief it brought, but age 12. At that age, I was aware of what I was doing. I've beat myself up with objects or my fists. I've banged my head and fists into walls. I've burned myself with matches and lighters. I've verbally abused myself until I made myself cry. I've pulled my hair out. I've bitten the skin around my fingernails and on my knuckles until it bled.

What stuck with me, though, was the cutting. Cutting brought the best relief. I've cut myself with any sharp object at hand, ranging from shards of glass and scissors, to razor blades and scalpels. Scratches first, barely drawing blood. I rarely did it in the beginning. Cuts drawing blood, cuts bleeding like they would never stop, cuts needing steri-strips, glue, or stitches. Gashes in my skin. Scars everywhere. More frequent cutting, escalating in periods.

But why? Why would anyone practise self-destruction and permanently scar and damage their body?

I can give you a handful (or two) of reasons why.

Instant relief from overwhelming emotions

I'm extremely sensitive to most things around me. I react strongly to the smallest things, and I've even been told my my previous therapist that I have more overwhelming and intense feelings than a lot of people. Self harm puts my focus on something else and helps me forget the emotional pain for a few short moments, especially the nagging, sickening anxiety I feel all the time.

Feeling something rather than being numb

Then again, I'm not always struggling with intense emotions. Sometimes, I'm completely numb and get desperate to just feel something. Feeling physical pain is better than feeling nothing at all.

Physical pain > emotional pain

It's easier to deal with physical pain. Simple as that. I'm in control of the physical pain. I'm not in control of the emotional pain.

I deserve it, punishment, self-hatred

I hate myself. I hate my body, and I hate my thoughts and way of thinking. I hate what I've become, and I need to punish myself for it. I have to punish myself if I do something I wasn't supposed to. I have to punish myself for being like this. I deserve the physical pain, the cuts, the scars, the condescending comments, the disgusted looks, the stupid jokes, the nasty remarks, and the pointed fingers....

It's beautiful, it fascinates me

I think cut and scars are beautiful, same with blood. I like the taste of blood, too. Also, I have a perhaps unhealthy fascination with the human body, and I'm curious about it. I'm eager to learn and explore. What's beneath my skin is intriguing, and I'm curious to look at it. When I had surgery on my leg, I watched as they changed the bandages. I had a huge, deep hole in my leg. Nerves severed. I'll probably never regain feeling in that area. The pain was excruciating even though I was given morphine, but after the worst pain had subsided, I couldn't help but to sit up a bit and look as the hole in my leg filled with blood before they put new compresses into the wound and bandaged it up. Now, two years later, I still wish I had a picture of that hole in my leg...

To validate emotional pain

I have a mental illness. No one can see the constant pain I'm in. It's not fair that how I feel and how much I hurt should only be on the inside. It damn well should show. People have to see the pain I'm in. Actions speak louder than words.

To "separate" myself from "pretty" people

I bet this needs some some explaining, for sure. What I mean is that I try to make myself ugly and permanently scar myself and forever give up the hopes of joining the "pretty", "happy" people. I feel less worth than them, and in a way, I want to destroy every chance of "joining" them.

To make myself unwanted

As if my body didn't make me repulsive enough already. It's a bit backwards, I guess... 'cause I need to feel wanted. I need to feel loved. I want to be with someone. Yet, I try to make my body as disgusting as possible to other people by scarring it like that... why? I'm not actually sure. Punishment? You tell me. 

It's become an addiction

Regardless of my state of mind, I want to cut. I can be perfectly fine and still have that nagging urge to hurt myself. It feels like I'll never be able to live without it. I can't imagine living a life where i don't hurt myself on a regular basis. I could write page up and page down about this, but bottom line is; it's an addiction. It's a compulsion. Addictions are hard (although not impossible) to overcome.

(Right forearm, July 2012)

"Punishment"

Sometimes, I get into this mindset of "if I have to suffer, then so do you" and "if you make me suffer, I'm gonna make you suffer." Essentially, that I have to punish someone. It usually derives from getting hurt by someone, obviously, but at times, I have no reason to start acting like that.

I'm a very sensitive person. I'm extremely sensitive to people's actions and words, and I often take things the wrong way or start over-analyzing. Catastrophe-thoughts often follow.

I think my boyfriend is the one who has experienced that the most. I easily overreact, and can get very hurt and angry even if he didn't do anything wrong. So because he made me suffer, regardless of if he actually did me wrong or if I'm just overreacting, he has to suffer, too. Logical? Not really.

Once again, I'm divided into two parts.

I usually hate fighting with people. A part of me just wants to make things okay and be happy and positive, but then there's that monster that just won't let me. It feels like I'm either going to explode or cave in in my desperate attempt to work against it and control it, 'cause both sides are so incredibly strong. Regardless of how much I try to push that ugly mindset away, I most often can't. I can't even make myself type out a happy smiley on msn. I can barely make myself tell my boyfriend that I love him, even though I really do. I can't make myself write long replies or say anything positive. I can hardly make myself reply at all. It's like this huge wall that I can't knock down. I know that it's no one's fault but my own, but it's really hard.

Also, this "punishment" always backfires. I know that it backfires, and yet I keep doing the same thing. I'm the one who gets hurt, not the person I'm trying to punish. Eventually, I feel so hopeless and desperate that I just start crying. Everyone just thinks I'm in a bad mood, and they can't really pick up on it. It's not just a "bad mood". It's an internal war between a monster and the real me. I always cry and cut and beat myself up over it afterwards and vow to control it better the next time, but I highly doubt that I can.

Picture // Tumblr

Mental Disease

(Mental Disease - Licia Chery)

A side of me wanna be free

A side of me wanna stay a prisoner

A mental disease is destroying myself

I wanna live long, wanna live free, wanna be healthy

But I'm spending my time doing my best to destroy myself

I know what I'm doing is wrong, but the disease is strong

Stronger than my will of going on

And I do my best to destroy myself

I'm destroying myself, but I do admit I may need help

Can somebody get me out of this nightmare?

I'm destroying myself, but I do admit I may need help

Can somebody get me out of this nightmare?

I thought I had the control

I thought I could hold the ridges of my life

But I failed, and I need some help to rebuild myself

I hate this new side of me that never can see the abyss I am putting myself in

This new side of me that likes to destroy myself

I'm destroying myself, but I do admit I may need help

Can somebody get me out of this nightmare?

I'm destroying myself, but I do admit I may need help

Can somebody get me out of this nightmare?

A side of me wanna be free

A side of me wanna stay a prisoner

A mental disease is destroying myself

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"Occasionally I wished I could walk through a picture window and have the sharp broken shards slash me to ribbons, so I could finally look like I felt..."

- Elizabeth Wurtzel, "Prozac Nation"

Here in the darkness I know myself

Picture // Tumblr

"I wanna stay in love with my sorrow, but I want to let it go..."

I'm terrified of dying. I start crying and panic if I think too much about it. Why is it then that I still want to die? The smallest thing can send me into a dark spiral that leads to one single thought; I have to die. There is no other option.

I want to experience the future. I want to turn 18, graduate high school, get a decent education in my chosen field, eventually move in with a partner... and at the same time, the future terrifies me. I can't do anything, I can't live up to anyone's expectations, and I'll never reach my goals. I'll never be able to function like I should in the adult world, and I'm too afraid of everything.

I want to stop self harming. I don't want even more scars that bring out people's bad sides when they see them - prejudice, stares, whispers, pointed fingers, obvious questions... I want to be able to cope in healthier ways, and I sometimes get scared when I realize what I've done to myself. Yet, I don't want to stop. I don't care about the scars, I just want my pain to be visible. Nothing is good enough, nothing is deep enough.

What I need the most is closeness. I just need to feel close to someone, and that someone can look past the facade and the walls I've built. That someone comes up to me and asks me "how are you really?". That someone holds me and takes care of me. That someone sees me. However, I can't deal with it. I usually don't mind talking about my problems, but once someone starts digging and close in on something very painful, I withdraw. I can't cope with having someone too close. They're gonna leave me anyway, and that pain is unbearable.

I'm divided into two parts. Two very contradictory parts. The sick me, and the healthy me.

Picture // Tumblr

The sick me doesn't want to recover. She doesn't want to get better, 'cause then she'll disappear. The sick me is being controlled by a monster that keeps pulling her down. Lucifer, the monster, thinks that she doesn't deserve to get better anyway. She's been tricked into liking everything that the depression and its friends bring along with them, all the while not being able to cope with how painful it is. But this is all she knows, and she's had it like this for so long. She's terrified of being abandoned and forgotten. To be sick allows her to be visible, and Lucifer keeps her ill. The sicker, the better. She wants scars and other visible signs, 'cause it isn't fair that her pain has to be only on the inside.

Then we have the healthy me. She's small, but she's there. She's whispering - desperately - that this is bad. She does her best to make the sick me understand that there are other things in this world and that she doesn't need to cling to Lucifer and the illness to be seen, but Lucifer drowns her out. She wants to show the sick me that there's hope; that things can change. That she'll recover and be able to live a good life. However, Lucifer won't allow it.

It's difficult. The sick part is the biggest one, and she doesn't want anything to do with the real world. It seems too difficult to take care of herself. There's so much responsibility, and the world is a huge and scary place. She's a small child trapped in a growing body. She can't do it on her own, and though the healthy me tried to prevent it, she let a monster take the control and lead the way.

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"I wonder which of those 

brought her to this place,

what monsters-internal or

external-she has fought.

I wonder what drives her

to give in to the goddess

of lust and sharp edges,

open her skin and bleed,

to purposely walk where most

digress, lost in the moment.

I wonder how it feels

to possess such courage."

- Ellen Hopkins, "Impulse"

Keep going

Picture // private

I love that quote. The first time I was committed, I carved it into the wall with a pen. The 2nd time, I was in a secluded room, so I couldn't see it, but the 3rd time, I was given the same room again, and it was still there... the ink was almost gone, but the marks were still there, and you could still clearly see what it said. I wrote over it again to make sure it'd be even clearer.

Tiger?

I've never really gotten that many comments about my scars. A lot of people stare, some people point, but most people don't ask or comment (a few have of course been the exception). Most people know not to ask. Most people, especially when they know me, keep their snide comments and nasty remarks to themselves. But what do you do when you encounter a child?

Small children usually don't understand the concept of self harm. My nieces never ask. I don't know if it's because it scares them, or because they're too shy, or because they don't care, or because my sisters have said anything about it and told them not to. Same with my youngest cousin. But some children do ask. They're curious, and they don't understand why I have all those marks covering my body when no one else they know have them.

There was especially one incident that made an impression on me. I was at my (at the time) best friend's house, and we were baking. Her youngest sister, at the time probably around eight years old, came into the kitchen to look at what we were doing. Then she looked at my arms.

"What are those?" She said.

I was caught off-guard, 'cause I was pretty sure she'd seen before and never asked, and didn't really manage to form a coherent response, not even a simple "I got hurt" or "I was injured" or anything.

My best friend quickly stepped in and told her sister that that was enough and that she should go upstairs, and though she did comply, she first said:

"You look like a tiger!"

And she was shoo'ed upstairs. There was no malice in her voice, just... astonishment? We resumed to doing what we had been doing before, but that comment stuck with me. I still think about it, and not because it pissed me off, but because it surprised me. A zebra? I had heard that one before. Zebra stripes. Almost a cute term. But a tiger? In a way, that made me sound stronger than I felt. Actually, it kind of made me smile.

Even though it was probably mindless from her side, in some way it kind of helped reassure me that there's nothing wrong with having those stripes.

(Left forearm, May/June 2011)
Picture // private

(Right forearm, May/June 2011)
Picture // private

Attempt & gastric lavage

Picture // Tumblr

If anything, this was written to scare myself (and maybe others?) from attempting suicide or overdosing again, not to encourage it. 
Please read with respect.

September 5th, 2011

I can hear the paramedics talking to a doctor just a few feet away from me, but I can't make out the words. It sounds so far away. My head feels like it’s filled with cotton, and I can't see straight. My eyes keep closing involuntarily, and I'm so unbelievable tired.

Now I put my life in the hands of someone else. The people who save lives. I don't have to be in control anymore. It's almost a relief.

A paramedic pats me on the shoulder before saying goodbye to me, also mentioning something about hoping he'll never have to see me like this again. He's picked me up before, and he doesn't want to do it again.

A nurse approaches me and pushes the bed I'm sitting on across the room, and the doctor finally says something I can make sense of. It makes the blood in my veins freeze.

"Gastric lavage."

At first, it feels unreal. Then tears start welling in my eyes, and soon I'm crying. I don't want to. I know what it means - that I'll have to have my stomach pumped. I beg them, my voice shaky. I ask if they can't just let me drink activated charcoal like the previous times, but the doctor shakes his head.

"You've taken too many pills for that, I’m afraid. It's important we get all of them out now."

The nurse from earlier gives me a clean hospital shirt and tells me to change into it, and then leaves. I do as I'm told, although hesitating due to the hatred for my body. I lay down again after putting it on. The doctor prepares things, including the tube. It's thick, and I'm not so sure it's even possible to get it down my throat. I’m shaking. I’m scared.

Two more nurses accompany the doctor. One of them draws blood and leaves, and the other checks my blood pressure. When they're finished, the doctor quickly explains the procedure while the first nurse returns with a cup of water.

They tell me to lie down. The two nurses standing on each side of me now hold my arms down while the doctor tilts my head back and starts guiding the tube down my throat. One nurse gives me the water in small sips. It's given to me so that the tube will go down more easily. I start crying again as it slowly moves down my throat. I gag and cough. It’s like I’m being choked.

I'm uncertain if I throw up or not, but I doubt it - I never do. However, it feels like I'm being violated, and the whole procedure seems to take forever. They repeat it until the liquid that comes up has no more traces of pills. I hardly have any recollection of what happens next. I don’t remember how long it actually takes, and I don’t remember having the tube removed. However, I do know I’m crying the whole time.

Picture // Tumblr

090612

Every time I've attempted suicide or overdosed, I've told myself the same; this was the last time. I'll never put myself through anything similar again. I'll never hurt anyone around me like that again. I'll never take it this far again, I'll never allow it to go this far again.

However... as time passes by, it's like my mind automatically alters the memories. The pain, the humiliation, the loss of control over my body, the feeling of being paralyzed, the cold, the dizziness, the confusion, having my stomach pumped...

The memories seem so distant. It didn't happen to me. I don't associate the memories with the feelings I know they brought anymore, and after a few months, I've once again convinced myself that it'll be quick and painless, although I know otherwise. Once again, every single thing I do becomes a question of choosing between life and death. Quite literally. It's like my mind and body are plotting against me, preparing to do it again, and I'm not even sure if I want to die.

Picture // WeHeartIt

It terrifies me.

Lucifer's Hands

I wrote this poem when I was in a psych ward in July/August last year. I had reached out for help without extreme measures, and was heard - in a way. They were condescending and kicked me out after four days, but it was something. I was lying in bed there, thinking about my boyfriend. I've been asked how it's possible that he's helped me if I still struggle with the things I do even though I have him. This is what came of it. It might not be a big thing for others, but it is for me. It was originally written in my native language, so I'll include the original below the English translation.

Lucifer’s Hands 

Lucifer’s hands 

lay around my throat 

He tightened his grip, 

and made it impossible to breathe 

He created 

a chaos of thoughts and urges 

That ended with cuts and blood, 

pills, and all that followed 

I tried 

to run, escape, flee 

But he always caught up with me, 

and dragged me back into the abyss 

He trapped me 

in an eternal vicious circle 

The pain was the only way out, 

although it never lasted 

A slave 

of the forces of darkness 

All light was bygone, 

leaving only my biggest fear 

But then, 

you were there 

Reached out a hand, 

offered to listen 

From you, 

I received help when I fell 

You got me back on my feet 

without asking anything of me 

You, 

who also had suffered, 

you cared for me, 

without an ounce of selfishness 

And I 

wanted to give the fight another go 

More determined than before, 

for you 

For Lucifer’s hands 

lie around my throat 

But you made him 

loosen his grip

Lucifers hender 

Lucifers hender

lå rundt halsen min

Han strammet grepet

og gjorde det umulig å puste

Han skapte

et kaos av tanker og trang

Med følger som kutt og blod,

piller og alt som hørte med

Jeg prøvde

å løpe, rømme, flykte

Men han tok meg alltid igjen,

og dro meg ned i avgrunnen

Han fanget meg

i en evig ond sirkel

Smerten var eneste vei ut,

selv om det ikke varte

En slave

av mørkets krefter

Alt lyst var svunnet hen,

og etterlot kun min største frykt

Men så

sto du der

Rakte ut en hånd,

tilbød deg å lytte

Av deg

fikk jeg hjelp når jeg falt

Du stablet meg på beina,

uten å be om noe i gjengjeld

Du

som selv hadde lidd

tok meg til deg

uten noe egoisme i tankene

Og jeg

ville gi kampen et nytt forsøk

Mer bestemt enn før,

for din skyld

For Lucifers hender

ligger rundt halsen min

Men du fikk ham til

å løsne grepet 

"Attention-seeker"

Picture // Tumblr

"She's just doing it for attention."
"Ignore it, and she'll stop eventually. If you give her attention, she'll just keep doing it."

Things I hear all the time regarding my self harm, suicidal thoughts and actions, and my other mental issues. Things I hear from friends and read online - not about myself, but about others.

Yes, I do want attention. Is that such a bad thing? Why is it that wanting attention has become so negative, such a derogatory term?

I've been ignored and put down my whole life, so much that I even prefer negative attention rather than being invisible. If I had the option between being beaten, and being ignored completely, I'd choose the first. I've provoked people into hitting me.Terrifying, but still better options than being ignored. It was better than being invisible.

Yes, I am partly doing what I'm doing to myself for attention. Not because I want people to pity me or baby me, but because I want someone to really see how much pain I'm in. Because I want someone to acknowledge my issues for what they are. Because I need love and attention and encouragement, just like anyone else.

No, I will not stop if people keep ignoring me. Quite the contrary, I'll scream louder and louder in the only ways I know of - worse behaviour, worse cuts, worse overdoses, worse suicide attempts. It's true that I get encouraged to keep destroying myself from the attention I've gotten after overdoses and suicide attempts, but only because the kind of attention I've been given has reinforced the fact that I need to do these things to be seen. If they had listened to my words, I wouldn't have to take to such extreme action.

I need reassurance. I need to understand that I can be seen and heard - using words alone. I need someone to hear what I say before I do something really bad. I need someone to see and hear what my thoughts can make me do - before I do it. I need people to care. I need people to encourage my recovery and utter concern for the reasons behind what I've done if I first do something drastic.

Wanting attention is not a bad thing. It's human nature. Babies scream and cry to get it if they're ignored.

"S/he just cuts for attention."

"His/her problems aren't real."

"Attention-seeker."

In my opinion, people who say things like that, their voices condescending and filled with venom, are ignorant. Who can decide what problems are real or not? Do they not understand how much pain someone has to be in to drag a blade across their own skin? Even if it's "just for attention", if someone is so desperate to be seen and for someone to care that they permanently scar their own bodies, isn't that a sign that something is wrong?

I do not cut only for attention (I could list almost a dozen reasons, and I will in a later entry), but it's one of them. For people to see my pain. Until I learn that it's okay to not do it, that people still see me and my problems, it will probably remain one of the reasons.

It's been a long time coming

Ever since the thought first occurred to me, not a single day has passed where I haven't thought about it. Of course it varies in strength, and the thought isn't synonymous with the urge to do it. It can be a brief thought that enters my mind one second and vanished the next, or it can be an urge so powerful it's all that consumes me, an urge it's almost impossible to not act out on.

The urges and the self-destructiveness that consume me have caused me to cut myself, to burn myself, to abuse myself physically and verbally and emotionally in most ways I can think of. They've caused me to overdose, to slit my wrists, to walk into the street with cars approaching, to try to drown myself, and to stand on bridges, trying to gather the courage to jump.

Regardless of the strength of the thoughts and urges, no day has been completely without, and maybe that's what they meant when they told me I was chronically suicidal and nothing could be done about it. Am I doomed to continue like this for the rest of my life, however long or short that might be? Do I always have to possess this need to tempt death, or even to "achieve" it?

It's been like that for so long. It's been a long time to want to take my own life.