Nic Narrates

I read a quote from Peter Sellers today: “There used to be a real me, but I had it surgically removed.”

How do I write about this? Why do I feel compelled to do so?

Lately, I’ve felt as though I’ve disappeared. Like the real me has been folded up, wrapped in tissue paper, and stored in the closet like all the Christmas presents I’ve been wrapping and hiding since Thanksgiving. I find myself in so much pain these days. I feel like a shell of myself. And the thing that upsets me the most is that I have chosen to be like this. I’m afraid to be who I am right now. I’m afraid of what I say and think and do and so I’m not saying or thinking or doing as I normally would. I’m disconnected and I’m coping.

I show up for work. I call my mother. I see my therapist. I go grocery shopping and drop off my dry cleaning. I plan vacations for next year. I function, you can see me and hear me, but I’m not really here. I’m present in a physical sense, but who I am is buried.

Until this morning.

Pain, then anger, burst out this morning. I cannot forget that it is there at every moment, but I miscalculated its proximity to the surface. I’m reliving the nightmare I knew so well growing up and it’s tearing me apart. Or rather, I am. I am tearing me apart. Each time I cut. In those moments I am able to release all of these feelings. It feels better. It is a deep exhale. And all of this desperation melts away.

I want to hurt myself physically because I’m already so hurt emotionally. I can’t see that pain, but if I take a knife to my arm, I can see that. It becomes tangible. It feels legitimate. Maybe I’m just full of shit.

Until I do it though, I think about it constantly. I become consumed by it, and picture doing it in my mind. I hate myself for it. I tell myself I’m sick and demented. I’m incredibly selfish and self-centered. I tell myself I’m just seeking attention or feeling sorry for myself…what I was told to think when I was younger and felt the same way. But I know that is wrong. I don’t want attention. I don’t want to feel sorry for myself. I want acceptance and worth. I want the pressures of my failures to go away. I want peace within. But suddenly, everything is more than I can bear.

I don’t know what to do with myself anymore. I can’t find a way in which to cope that is deemed healthy and makes me feel better. I disappear or I cut. Either way, I hurt. I don’t know where to go with that pain; I don’t know where to put it. So, it sits in my chest. And when you look at me, you can see the eyes but not what lingers behind.

I use concealer to mask the scars while I wait for them to fade.

Filed under: cutting, depression, work in progress by Nic