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Attachment

March 3, 2018
CW: self-harm


Chop, chop, chop. He looked down at his fingers. Three of them lay as if worms pretending to be dead. The red blood pooled out yet he felt nothing. This was different for him, not having fingers. He had spent his whole life having 5 fingers on his left hand, but now, something new, he thought, only two. He inspected his new hand. A thumb, three fingers now cut down to the same length as his thumb and a pinky which now dominated the entire hand. “I should burn the tips.” He said aloud to his thumb and pinky. The blood was getting everywhere. His pants, his shoes, the cutting board he would need to clean before it stained for good. Heating up the knife until it glowed a deep orange, he placed the remaining bone and flesh of his three fingers into the hot metal. Still, he felt no pain. As the flesh burned, he turned away to avoid the smell going directly into his nostrils. He wasn’t sure when he stopped feeling pain. He could still feel the fingers separating from his hand but not the pain. Something was missing from his usual emotional state, but even acknowledging that, he didn’t care. If he could feel a sense of freedom, it probably would have come by know, he thought, but he didn’t feel it so instead he began cleaning up the blood. The one thing he could feel was pleasure. And so he began his day the way that felt best to him, by removing anything that did not bring him pleasure. First the fingers, then the blood. As these pieces of his life were cut off, carted away and sopped up, the feeling of pleasure began to swell. Once the cutting board was put away, his pants were changed he looked again for something to remove.

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Waiting

February 24, 2018

She sat in the windowsill, waiting. The sun was covered by a thick grey canvas penetrated by the empty branches of trees. It felt odd to be so close to the window, away from the chairs and the couch, and the slight stream of cold air that extracted heat from her face made her wonder if she was just making things worse. No one was around now. She looked back into the room The light from the grey dome outside made everything feel faded, as if the whole space might flatten suddenly to a single hue, a misty fog slowly filling the space. Her phone buzzed and she flinched, caught herself and remained by the window. She should check her emails, she thought, and start the applications and look for work and call the therapists office again- she took a deep breath, and looked back up into the sky. She felt nothing for a moment. Then, without warning, it came. The cold air evacuated for a moment as the sunlight brightened her face. She closed her eyes, remembered again, and as the gold faded just as quickly as it came, she moved to check her phone.

Welcoming

February 16, 2018

If you put me into a box, I will stay inside of it. I will fold myself up, tuck in my feet and even with great discomfort I will hold myself in. If you were to make the box smaller, mark a section forbidden, fill it with apples instead, I will contort myself to the edges, like a puddle filling a hole. Unconscious. I want to make room for myself, look just outside of the playing field and find the tools I didn’t see. There is an image of myself that I see through the keyhole. I try to conjure it on the other side of the door, making little dolls, a picture in a locket, a vision held with an open chakra. Youth and sadness are two friends that have stuck by my side, but the former has become distant, won’t return my emails, says it’s not personal. The grey sadness of February is here now, for a bit, visiting like a goddess just to catch up with old friends, I light a candle, both a vigil and a welcoming, conjuring the sun in a little glass tube. I don’t know what I’m trying to remember. I’m calling for it, maybe I’ve never met it, just in a daydream one day during social studies in 5th grade. All the artifacts of a life force set on a pentacle around me: meditate, write, exercise, read, study, water the plants. I am hibernating, sowing the field, drawing a map, looking for the hidden door to the room where I left my belongings.

Bull

February 10, 2018

Sometimes it is important to follow your desires, say yes and take a chance on something you really want.

Sometimes it is really not okay. Just because something feels good for a fun time doesn’t mean its okay to do.

Am I a good person? Am I looking out for myself at the expense of other people?

Start somewhere, and hold on tight, guide it toward shore.

Success!

February 3, 2018

I wonder if I spent 10 minutes sliding my fingers across the keyboard lightly, not enough pressure to press the keys, if I would get more out of this. I’m amazed how often I experience pulling myself out of an instagram hole, a computer hole, a brain hole. At least I can always come back. It’s very quiet outside of my mind, grey and peaceful and boring. Inside there are battles, impossible odds, champions and villains. I can imagine an entire hero’s journey narrated above an image of a boy, slumped over on a stool, chin on fist gazing drearily out the window. Will he make it through this quagmire of emotion, the thrashing waves of desire and hopelessness? The boy shifts. Watch out! A school friend from the past appears in his mind. Quickly, my boy, you MUST overcome! The boy sighs, turns his head and sees his cat. Success!

Descending

January 27, 2018

Maybe all the gods are stretched thin now too. I used to place myself on the alters of success, coyly, like a lamb pretending it doesn’t want to be ravished. I flirted with the spirit guides, aliens, masters and goddesses. I was so sure they navigated the earth once as humans, but found a way to ascend into the heavens where they lived in peace. They could give me hints and tips on how to join them, like a scavenger hunt, bits of information scattered to be found at my leisure, overlooked by those not searching. 

And then I realized I hadn’t moved closer to them. I was digging in a fractal, pulling them closer to me. How painful it must be to be pulled slowly down to earth from the sky. To realize you were always right here together, filthy, greasy, lopsided, anxiety disorders and dying plants. Eternity is a disgusting beautiful place.

Let go

January 20, 2018

Sometimes it feels like I can see how the rest of my life will play out. Saturn screams at me: this event will follow that event, one day after the next, and I’ll look back from the future and realize I’ve always just been alive. Depression is mostly a deep inability to appreciate existence. It’s a total dependence on labels and power dynamics and some arbitrary scoreboard in some hyper specific field of nothing. This return continues to lay me bare: no, there is no one to impress, there are no goals to achieve, there are no awards worth battling for, there is only this, and if you can’t bare to enjoy this than you will never enjoy all those things you’ve set your eyes on. Fuck anyone who sees you struggle to find yourself and steps in to offer you their own version of you, and give thanks to those who again and again fail to give you the validation you seek. When your goals start to sour, and you find yourself having no clue which way to go, don’t be afraid to stop and enjoy being lost, it is a luxury.