Wyn Talks: Fear, Self-Loathing, Self-Harm, Survival
- So today I tried scratching myself with a broken Popsicle stick. The last time I attempted anything like that, I ended up in an inpatient facility. While the action was somewhat spur of the moment, the emotion behind the force is something that has been building for several months. Everything started as a mild stress and grew like bacteria in an unmonitored Petri dish until I realized, peripherally, that the damn thing was overflowing. With the mold came a series of ailments; silence became a virulent force of exchange, on my end, amongst the people I love. With that silence grew a sickening doubt like the horse upon which pestilence rides. “I am broken, and so is this world,” turned into, “I am broken and, even when I am not, THEY all know THEY are better than me.” Eventually, “Why do they think they are superior to me? They are like the others who’ve hurt me, and they are dangerous.” Finally, “Run! Run! Run,” was belling forth from my consciousness. This practice of silence is not as silent as I have previously thought. How else did the wood fragmented find my fingers? I spoke to a friend today. “I am not okay. I just need to be not okay with someone.” I go back and forth between voicing publicly and keeping it barreled. No one can bring me back from the proverbial ledge without my consent. Not for long, anyway. Speaking, however, can be a sledge hammer to a wall and a coaxing from a cave. There is nothing wrong with hiding or running occasionally, not if you have to regroup or survive, but rotting and imploding as a means of self-defense is quite different from crumbling so that you may build again. I am so often a coward, but I can tell you that there are so many ways to speak. I am speaking now, I am speaking when I kiss the one I love or cry from the words of Steve Carlsberg as I watch the moon dance with clouds like a glowing soul spinning with translucent scarves. You have a right to speak. The stick is now in the trash.