Wanted: A new self to live up to the ideal that I have in my mind.

When I initially figured it out, what she was doing to herself, what her snail would be about, and all that, I think I was stunned. I know I was worried, maybe even afraid. I felt helpless, unsure... You know, all those emotions that spring up when a friend's in trouble and you know that there's not a whole hell of a lot that you can actually do about it, no matter how much you may want to help. The result? Poetry. Yup. Because when I don't have a damned clue of what to do but I need to do something, I tend to do one of 3 things: babble mindlessly to someone, cry, or write. I was too stunned to do either of the first 2, so that left the last one. So in a few minutes I had jotted off a little poem that yes, sucks, yes, is somewhat depressing, yes, would worry some people (but I'll post it anyway, society and people's anxiety and whatnot be damned), and yes, sums up the way I felt right then.

She cuts.
And so I worry about her.
Worry that one day the knife will go too deep.

She cuts.
And so I fear for her.
Fear that her scars will never heal.

She cuts.
And so I cry for her.
Cry because I am weak.

She cuts.
And so I want to die for her.
Die to stop her misery.

Okay, yeah, that's that. Trite? Most likely. Pretty crappy? Quite possibly. Either way, I came across it today and reread it. I wrote it about 2 weeks ago. Since then, I've received her letter and read it. It's taken me awhile - after I read it, I went back into my stunned stage and basically avoided anything resembling actual thinking for the rest of the day - but I think I can say this now...

On some level, I get it. It seems with every passing day I understand a little more. Do I worry about her? God yes. But that doesn't mean I don't share some of the same thoughts, that I don't know where she's coming from. I've never gotten to the point where I actually did it. Still, I know that more than once the idea flitted through my mind. Will I ever do it? I doubt it, especially now that I'm watching (well, reading about) her as she deals with it. I know that it doesn't really do anything, that it doesn't achieve anything... And I also know that in some way it may help. In psych we learned about venting your anger - catharsis. You feel better after you vent, sometimes. You calm down. I think that maybe cutting is similar in some way. Of course, if you vent too much, you just reinforce the anger and it becomes a vicious cycle...

Nonetheless, I have begun to comprehend. Who doesn't want to be able to have some control over an aspect of their lives when everything seems amazingly screwed up? Who doesn't want to try to release their pain in some way, to try to cleanse their souls in an attempt to survive?

The fact that I understand makes some things a bit easier - it allows me to be calmer about the issue, to be a good friend and try to help without panicking. It also makes some things a bit harder. Because it scares me that I understand, just as it scared me when I learned that she did it. I'm not entirely sure why, but when I think about it... I don't know how to describe it. It's like having a hole where my stomach should be, or something. It's not exactly nausea or pain... It's just a feeling that's there. I don't know.

I have tried for as long as I can remember to live up to the ideal that I hold in my mind. The ideal of who I should be, how I should act, the level of perfection that I should be able to achieve. The level that I must achieve. No one's pressured me any more than they pressure any "talented and gifted" student. I have pressured myself. I have been hard on myself; I am still hard on myself. I expect things of myself that I would never expect of anyone else (with the exception of perhaps one person, who, for some reason, I hold to a similar standard...). I berate myself, sometimes hate myself... The results of which are not pretty.

Physically, I am fine. No wounds besides a few cat scratches and bruises from my clumsiness. Emotionally, I am often a wreck. I have tried to maintain a balance, to stay sane, to be content... And more often than not, it seems that I fail. And I think that in some way, I cut myself as well... I slice at myself from the inside, ripping myself apart with my thoughts and words. Crying is nothing for me. I have cried so hard and so often that the novelty of it is gone. It does not offer the same relief it used to. I used to be able to cry and then move on. That is rarer now... I continue to mull over things, to relive them and kick myself for them long after I have washed the streaked mascara from my face. I can't just let go and live my life. I don't know why... The importance of every minor thing seems amplified, intensified, magnified... Sometimes it just feels so heavy that I can't bear it... But I don't know what to do about it.

I wish I could say that acknowledging and realizing all of this meant that I knew what to do. It doesn't. Understanding the symptoms gets me no closer to a cure than before. It just gives me something to think about in the middle of the night.