Most posts here will be light and breezy...because even throughout the chaos that is my life...95% of the time that's how it is. One day, one hour, one minute, one second is taken as it comes...one at a time. This post however, not one of them.
I use to cut myself. Alot. I never told or showed anyone. I mostly did it on my upper thigh, sometimes my upper stomach, but mostly my thigh. I did it until I found out I was pregnant with Tadpole and then stopped. Completely. I had no desire to anymore. All my extra time was taken preparing for this little miracle to come. Then he was born, and even after major stresses would come my way I continued to not cut. It was wonderful. I really thought I had grown out of it. Then, the divorce. I went through my intense depression bout...it lasted a good week and a half and I was put on 48 hour psychiatric watch for attempted suicide. So, guess what I did to feel better? That's right, I cut. Alot. Not my legs...my left arm. All up. Aaron, (whom you will hear plenty more about later), took care of me during that week, calling people to come take care of me, taking off work, trying really hard to dress the wounds but I wouldn't let him. We have pictures of my arm but I'll spare you. Then medication got adjusted and I started feeling better. But the beast had been unleashed. He was back, and I wasn't ready to put him away just yet. So as I watched those deep cuts heal and scar...I was thankful. Then last week I had a rough day at work and all I could think about was getting home and get my razor out (Aaron took my favorite one and hid it somewhere). And I did, and immediately felt SO much better.
I've heard so many reasons why people probably do it...and they all sound rational. I'm not sure why I do it. It feels really good, it feels like a release. There is something erotic about steal to flesh that I sometimes lose myself thinking about.
This picture was taken of me last week, and I sat down to try to crop out my arm...because of the cuts up and down it. That was when I decided to blog this post. I am far from alone in this. It's not a cry for help for me. I keep it all covered up and hidden until they heal. It feels good to me, it feels like a sense of control. But there are some out there that it is a cry for help. Maybe next time you're at a restaurant and you're getting irritated at the waitress for not smiling big enough, or your checking out at wal-mart and heaven forbid the checkout girl was less than friendly...look at them, LOOK at them...and you'll be surprised and heartbroken at what you see.
Terrible twos. Whoever coined that phrase is smarter than Einstein. My son is two, and is TERRIBLE. My mom gets mad at me whenever I, "Talk about the boy like that", but then again when she is around him he's just a mass of fluff and love. When I'm around him, he screams, and screams and SCREAMS. That is his main source of communication and why I have no idea. I use to ignore Princess when she would scream, (which was never as loud or obnoxious) and she would stop. Easy as pie. She wouldn't get any attention that she obviously needed so she would quiet down and ask..in her own language of course, nicely what she needed. So, that being my only way of parenting thus far, I gave it a go with Tadpole. Yeah right. He gets louder, and my head pounds harder. I swat him, he looks at me like, "Is there something on my pants your trying to get off?" then AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!! Ah, as I sit here and type he is screaming. Yeah verily I say unto you, TERRIBLE. Even though it's a happy squeal, it's ssssoooo lllooouuuddd. So last night was picture night. Mikie and I just made it one trip with both kids. So, Sears says to get there 15 minutes early. So, there we were, 15 minutes early, and they didn't get to us (yes we had an appointment) until an HOUR after our scheduled time. It was torture with Mr. Terrible. Thank goodness for Michael and his complete and utter knowledge of how stressed out I get in situations like that as he just grabbed him, flipped him upside down, looked at me and said, "Remain calm Jessica." Hahaha...the Princess, being the perfect little momma would chase him when I couldn't run fast enough in my heels and say, "Tadpole, I said no sir and I mean no sir." Finally we got in, the pictures turned out fabulous, and the screaming continued while we tried to pick out pictures. He was tired and hungry which meant optimum volume. I could barely hear the girl as she was trying to sell us the most expensive packages they had. So, love you mom, but truly...this phase is terrible!!
