My war started when I was 12. It was the first time that I attacked.
There were so many reasons I hated the enemy. Her body was wrong, her father wanted nothing to do with her – obviously she was worthless, she hid constantly, she was weak and worthless. She deserved to be hurt, she deserved to bleed. The most important reason I started to attack is because…
She was me.
I’ve been at war with myself for a long time, and I’ve racked up the battle wounds because of it.
It’s hard to see, but that is the sad accumulation of ten years of tearing myself up. I cut every day. So many cuts over the years, so much blood, so much pain, and the words that I carved… The words are still the worst part to this day. They are engraved in me, never to go away. They were probably the most powerful harm that I did to myself. They can not be seen, but I know they are there, and it’s not always easy to deal with how vicious I was to me.
Bitch, whore, cunt, help me, worthless, hate, vile, evil, stupid…
Amongst my myriad of battle scars these vicious attacks hide. Settled in my skin for as long as I live. A reminder only to myself of the war that raged for so long.
It’s not to say that it has ended, but rather, there seems to be an uneasy truce amongst me, myself and I. It’s been several years now since I’ve attacked. All the battle scars are old.
The only thing that’s stopped me from doing it again, as silly as it may be, is the prospect of more tattoos. My body art is incredibly important to me. No outside force has been able to stop me. Not my relationships, not my family, not even my children. I have to remind myself that the more scars I have, the less art I can get. It helps get me through, but even years later it’s not easy. You see…
My war is an addiction. It’s incredibly appealing to continue to cut myself. It hurts, and I still feel I deserve it. It’s such a release when it happens. I feel better. I still crave the external pain. I still crave the adrenaline before the attack. I still crave the release of the internal pain. I still crave the control that it brings me. When things are hard, there are times where it consumes me, and all I can do is stay the hell away from sharp things, and look at my body art and remind myself that I can’t have art if I have scars.
I’m addicted and at war, and I don’t know if it will ever truly stop. All I know is that I have a truce with myself right now, and I will have to work to keep that up for the rest of my life.