[Trigger warning. I reference self-harm. It might be disturbing.]
I have a vague headache and I’m deciding between marijuana and ibuprofen.
The numbed-out life has an appeal.
I didn’t eat breakfast until about eleven. Definitely headache-contributing behaviour. I wasn’t hungry. I’m never hungry these days. That doesn’t stop me from rage eating compulsively every now and then. We are who we are, after all, and my eating disorder likes to keep its hand in. Practice so it doesn’t get stale. Thank God it’s close to Halloween and a plethora of soul-destroying binge food is readily available.
The occasional lapse and evening of self-loathing and regret that ensues ensures it stays relevant. The unending litany about my failure as a human being and how that connects to my hips and thighs is an oldie but a goodie.
The efforts my ED is making in the area of self-hatred are also good; they dovetail nicely with the internal dialogue depression mounts.
Who wouldn’t want to numb that into silence? Unfortunately, these kinds of cures are only temporary and quickly become new hammers instead of saviour sticks.
It’s odd and annoying that I can analyze and understand and still fuck up. Knowledge doesn’t guarantee perfection of execution. You’d think I’d have learned that from billiards. Geometry and physics are on board but the ball still doesn’t do what I want.
The swelling surrounding the wound on my chin may also be a contributing factor. It’s wouldn’t be the first time. Headaches and trauma go together and the would is probably traumatic. It’s hard for me to tell. I have to imagine what other people might think. You become numb to the horror of it yourself. You have to, I think. Otherwise, it might make me insane.
At any rate, it’s a little inflamed. And a little swollen. It’s probably pressing on a nerve which is irritating another until presto, headache. Plus, I packed it with honey this morning and that usually makes things worse before they get better.
Honey is a good thing. I use the Manuka variant from New Zealand. It has fantastic antibacterial properties and I burn out on Polysporin after a while. I know a few things about wound care. You pick information up over the years with consistent wounds and infections.
I’ve been cutting for a long time. Getting help from someone who is not me is not always possible and not always desirable. So, I learned. I learned about this cream and that one. About honey and silver and calendula. About different kinds of bandages and at what depth of wound you should start to worry. About hydrogen peroxide and how it’s a first aid “don’t” but hard to resist because the bubbling it makes when it interacts with bacteria and blood is wicked cool.
Weird knowledge and twisted skills. I’m getting better at home surgery. Home surgery is not to be confused with the compulsive cutting I engage in to create the wound. Sometimes you have to cut to make things better. Or maybe this is some weird psychotic justification of the insane?
Anyhow, debridement. Sometimes you need to clean out the wounds. Sometimes healing gets off track. I could’ve gone to a doctor but what’s the point? The avascular growth has to be removed or the wound won’t close and I can do that. This is not my first rodeo. Although closure without the doctor is looking chancy now – it’s four months open at this point. I need to learn how to stitch. The butterfly bandages are no longer helpful.
Maybe this time will be the time prayer works?
My inside voice is not kind as I try and deal with my self-inflicted injury. It’s hard for me to be kind, provide grace. This happens with medical professionals too. I don’t enjoy being treated like a freak because of the NSSI (non-suicidal self-injury). “Because I cut” still sounds better. Cleaned-up language isn’t always helpful.
I’m not in a place to deal with their contempt or confusion right now. I don’t have the strength to help them out, walk them through dealing with the mentally ill. I’m fragile and it takes little to make me fracture. All that’s left to do is soldier on, use heat and honey and amethyst crystals, and remind myself that I absolutely, positively cannot use the new craft knife I purchased as a scalpel.
No matter how much the weird scar on my legs calls to me.
I got the craft knife to cut ovals from old Christmas cards. Once I have a pile of ovals, I fold them into three-sided boxes. When I have enough three-sided boxes, I will make a Moravian star. Based on the time it’s taken to complete the boxes I have so far, it should be ready for display by Christmas 2022. But it keeps me busy. Busy is good. Empty time and I are not good for each other right now.
I don’t want to think and I don’t want to feel. Bad things happen then. Stay busy. Make a box. Practice a headstand. Despair over the state of the world. Rub the bandage. Regret not becoming a doctor.
Wait for the next headache.
Neuralgia is coming.