That Old Tune

Quickly, then: when I was 12 I was diagnosed with a genius IQ. 14, I began to get depression. I grew to connect the two, and from 15 to 17 I would self-harm by bashing the back of my head against walls, etc. If I did it long enough I would get a sensation like pieces of my skull were rearranging themselves, and it soothed me. I didn't eat properly from 14 to 18. I took a certain amount of drugs, and would often go without sleep. Between my little suicide attempts I was essentially trying to turn myself insane, or stupid. At 19 I smashed my forehead open, was taken to hospital and there is a very visible scar to this day.

I've talked about self-hatred A LOT during my blogging years. I've spent years trying to escape myself, one way or another. I hate my body. I hate my mind. What does that mean, and why should I care, considering I hate myself? Well it is the false ideal part of me that hates the vulnerable part, the part which hurts. I can never forgive myself for doing what I did to myself. I don't think I damaged myself any more than the physical scar (and mentally and physically the bigger effects were refusing to self-educate or exercise) but I'll always know, I could have been more intelligent just as I could have been better-looking.

I can't make films because even if I achieve a certain success I'll know I could have been better, which is even sadder. I can't let myself be happy because I can't forgive myself for my own self-hatred. I can't love others normally, because I hate myself too much. Tomorrow was going to be perhaps the day when things went further with A. The thing about self-harm is that there's always a moment of choice. If I tell her that she can't come over tomorrow, I may not even see her again. When I smashed open my head, I knew that I was going to do damage myself for life. I could have not done it. I imagined the possibilities. Suicidal thoughts are much the same.

In one branch, I have a long and happy relationship with A. But that's not the branch that the masochist takes. Masochist isn't quite right, since they get pleasure from pain, whereas I derive a grim sense of justice. I've been trying to change myself in the past year, and A was a part of that, but really I'm just running away. I am starting to see that I was right to live as I did, in a repetitive blur where I had two friends and did nothing, and watched life go by, not feeling anything, never achieving. The only way to stop self-destruction is to fold into myself, and wait for life to pass as quickly and painlessly as possible.

Suicide is selfish. The more I expand, the more my behaviour impacts on others. I can't hurt A by using her to hurt myself. London was a good idea, but I still had some notion of being someone, or just having a normal year with a job, a girl, and some friends. Despair is melodramatic in such a situation. I'll become less than myself, so that I can never see the damage I have done. There's a lot of very smart guys living in their mothers' basements for something like this reason. I'll never dance with a girl. I'll never throw a party. I'll no longer take drugs, or walk around at night, or eat unhealthily.

I won't try and like myself, because I only like myself when I'm hurting, and perhaps that begins the cycle. I'll just be. Sometimes that's what you can afford. Time at 22 to look at what you are. You never had youth. You had love, from family and close friends, but you never belonged to someone. You don't look at yourself in the mirror when you leave in the mornings. Your hand is covered in scabs from a job you shouldn't be doing. You bought a packet of condoms today just to see what being that person felt like. You find friendships complex. You can't work consistently on anything that shows potential. Live in your little flat, be polite and keep your head down. A suicide of the senses. Death-in-life hurts no-one else. Leave people like A alone.