I just keep hitting myself. I close my fists and let loose on my face and hands and legs until that familiar stinging washes over me. I do it in private, mostly, but it slips out sometimes in front of people. Walking down the street to quickchek, at the park, anywhere public that lets me think. I did it once in front of my mom at a mall. I was deep in thought, but I don't recall what I was thinking about. I do know it was something shitty or embarrasing that came across my mind, forcing my hand up to my forehead instinctively to put an end to the thought before it consumes me. I hit hard enough to leave a knot but quick enough that all my mom did was side-eye me, then go back to whatever she was doing. It's so relieving to be hurt. It's so good and, and fucking delicious, everything about it is so effective and wonderful. I know it's mainly for control- to stop what's coming. To properly distract me. But, it's so much more than that. It exhilirates me, calms me, punishes me- the perfect regulator. Everything I'm missing in daily life is provided by this generious sensation. Blood and bruises. It's what I'm craving at the moment. This late at night and on days where everything gets too much even though it's all so little. Basic, small inconveniences turn life threatening. The way I feel, and the thoughts I've been having.. it's what puts this violence in my hands. It's been happening so frequently lately. These mindless days are spotted with slapping and pinching and punching. I want to die tonight. I want to feel something amazing. I want to feel the world end. But I have obligations. The best I can do at the moment is a nice, controlled session of bodily abuse. Fuck you. Fuck this skin. Fuck this body. How fucked up is too fucked up? Groinal responses to punching myself in the face, and shredding my legs up? I don't know. Someone fix me. An entry from earlier this month. I don't remember the date. I can hardly recognize myself. This skin and hair is so far distanced from what I idealized in my childhood. I'm not a little white girl. I've grown more comfortable with myself. I think I'm at least a little cute. Afro and penis and all. I watched legally blonde a couple weeks ago and I loved it. I would kill to experience that, being a blonde highschool cheerleader, jocky boyfriend and perfect, clear skin. Smooth, no scars from burns or bruises or cuts or acne. Just pure, unblemished flesh- that cleanliness. Nothing i've ever lived. I was wearing shorts for the first time in forever a couple days ago and my mom made a point of it to screech about my leg scars. Shit like how I gotta put some salve or cocobutter on it to help them fade, because it's gross and unattractive. It makes me seem unstable. Cutting is white people shit. Thank you mom! They've been harping a lot on my appearance more often lately. Shave that shit off your face. What is that on your forehead? Oh yeah, the scar I gave you when I busted your head on the floor a month ago. Better hope that heals. 'I'm uncomfortable being around you, and you're selfish for not doing anything about it'- almost an exact quote from their lips. Having that much self importance that you think someones inconveniencing you by just being in your line of sight. The constant reminders is what gets to me the most. I already know im disgusting. I already know I make people uncomfortable. I spent that nice first decade of life avoiding mirrors and myself, and spent the beginning of this new one starving myself down to be more.. conventional. Digestable. To myself. Maybe to you too, but I really hope to God that's not the case. I'm gonna be so pissed if it's one of those freudian things where all my illnesses are a direct symptom of being your fucking kid. I've found control. Goodnight.
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