These are some poem-type things I’ve written about my self-injury, depression, eating issues etc. I didn’t write them for anyone but me, and I certainly don’t think they are any good in the high-school English sense—they are really just a way for me to record some random musings.
WARNING! The stuff below might upset or “trigger” you if you’re feeling that way. Be careful.
Kindness
This one was written in February 2002, a few weeks following my discharge from hospital after my first skin graft. I dug it out again in April 2002 following my first suicide attempt.
| Kindness People are wonderfully kind, and yet The void inside aches all the more. Is it because I don’t deserve their kindness? No, in fact it’s because I do— My tutor has a duty to look after my welfare; James is doing what a good, concerned colleague should; A mother is obliged to be good to her child Even while she wishes I had turned out differently; Minister listen and pray: they do their job; Doctors smile and prescribe: they do theirs. LOVE on the other hand Is kindness untainted by any sense of moral duty. God has no duty to treat me well Indeed he has every right to hate me But chooses to love. Yet the void remains. How can I feel His love if I am no longer sure what love might feel like? The curse of the single person Is that warmth and kindness are available For a limited period only, And when the crisis is over and the wounds are healed I am deemed strong enough to return to my icy self-sufficiency; Indeed it is my duty to do so, to carry on my job, do my share, not impose. When I find love, we two shall embrace Not that perfunctory brush of the clothing expected when the British show their kindness But strong safe arms enveloping frail starved bodies And permission to cry, Cry until the last tear is gone. |
My room, my life
I wrote this in March 2002. Here is what I said about it at the time.
I just feel like writing this, for no particular reason, I’m ok ... And this isnt a poem or a proper creative thing, just a description. Yesterday I took a look at my room. Or more likely I took a look at myself, as evidenced by the state of my room. And it made me sick. I could enter my bedroom for the Turner Prize (ok, there’s no condoms on the bed, Tracey Emin style, but its almost like that). It’s like art, it’s like a shrine to depression and self-injury.
| My room, my life Big box of bandages and antiseptics and stuff in the middle of the floor. Razor blades and tape by my bed. Blood soaked hankies. Dirty clothes and soiled bandages strewn around. A little pile of unpaid bills. Hair everywhere. Books on depression and self-injury and suicide in a messy heap. Some of them overdue. Bible underneath rather dusty. A cracked glass next to an open box of antidepressants. My unmade bed, sheets smeared with that yellow stuff that oozes out of burns. Cling film. An appointment card for the psychiatric hospital. Receipts for odd poisons, now hidden under the bed. Litter of used envelopes and bandage backings and plastic bags and chocolate wrappers scattered everywhere. When did I last empty the bin? A calorie counting book and packet of Ryvita. Calendar at two months ago. Curtains perpetually closed. The sun is outside but casts a blue glow through the curtains. That is how I feel. |
Why?
December 2002, after telling my mother about the depression and the self-injury. Her reaction to the former was basically “Oh yes, I was depressed for a few months after your dad died.” and to the latter was sheer disgust, plus the fact that she’d noticed the scars and guessed many months ago.
|
Why???
She saw but didn’t care She asked me where I wanted to spend Christmas. Ive always spent it with her, but it seems she was hoping I wouldn’t this year, because there isn’t space for me, unless I sleep on the sofa. There is space for her husband’s three children, their spouses, his two grandchildren and his mother. But not for me. Were you worried about work, she says. Families are nothing but pain. |
Thoughts at 3am
May 2002.
| Thoughts at 3am What is my problem? It’s actually not the memories of unwanted sexual encounters Nor the constant invalidation But the simple fact that I am starved. Starved, that is, of love and affection And even of human contact of a physical Or emotional kind. It aches inside Yet I cannot—dare not—satisfy it: Since I am so hungry, might I not Devour the one I love? Since I am a bottomless pit, might he not Fall in, and be gone forever? Or, perhaps worse, draw back from the edge Tossing in only those painful words of “Too needy, too demanding”? I dare not risk it. So like a vacuum chamber I have thick glass walls Which protect the outside world from me, Or, like a dried-out sponge, I am Abrasive at the slightest touch. |
Self Hate
This one’s March 2003, not long before my bad relapse in April that year.
|
**self hate** acheafflictionagonyaloneanguishanxietyblea kbloodburdenburncausticcontemptconfusionco rrodecursecutdeadnessdeathdejectiondepress iondesecrationdesolationdespairdesperatede spiseddespondencydiscouragementdisgustdist ressevilfailurefearforlornnessgashgloomgri efhateheartachehellhurthopelessnessisolati onlacerationloathinglonelinessmadnessmelan cholymiserynuisanceordealpainpanicpersecut ionpunishmentrazorripsadnessscarscreamscum sinshameslicesorrowsuicideterrortormenttor turetrialunlovedupsetviolencewoundwretched |
Perfection
I’m not sure when this one was. Probably later in 2003.
| Perfection Hard straightness of bones. Sudden widening at the joint. Flex arm, feel the hollow between the tendons. Wrist Elbow Collar bone Cheek. Awkward angularity as I walk along the road In my size 8 long jeans crumpled under my belt that frays around the newly made hole. The heaviness as my feet lift my boots. Mathematical regularity of my body—only straightness —not curves Except, perhaps, for the sinusoidal undulation of my ribs and knuckles. Purity in precision. Pale transparency of my skin. Whisper of my untainted breath, my clean saliva. Sit on soft chair to ease my bones. Hold out my hand, spidery, and admire the spray of tendons. My body is a working model, an anatomy exhibit— Just this once I am perfect |
Waiting
May 2003.
| Waiting Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting for bedtime so the day can end. Wishing the sun wouldn’t rise again. Listening for the postman, hoping for some comfort in a letter, hoping for some help in an appointment, Hoping for some hope. Waiting to see what will happen to my ankle. Waiting until its too late to apply for that job. Waiting until my mood lifts. Waiting to fall asleep wishing my thoughts would stop. |
Flesh
April 2005, as a speaker at a work-related conference.
| As I shook the window pane closed and put the matches back in
my pocket There came a knock at the door. “Come in!” I said, (A little too hastily perhaps). “Gosh, it smells like bacon in here” he said, sniffing around my office. “Bacon?” said I, laughing (Or at least trying to). “Well you know I’m a vegetarian!” It was true, and as I said it, I tugged nervously at my left sleeve And wondered, maybe, whether I was also a pig. |
Multipurpose
August 2005, after a relapse and another burn and graft.
| “Multipurpose Cling Film” You use it to stop your sandwiches getting wet —I use it to stop my bandages getting wet. It holds steam in during cooking —And it holds corrosive in during burning. It contains the smell of your mouldy cheese —And the smell of my infected wound. “Bounty Kitchen Towels” Good for mopping up spilt milk —and spilt blood. “Mr. Muscle Oven Cleaner” Removes burnt-on dirt —And burnt-in thoughts. “Mengers’ Caustic Soda” Unblocks your drain —Unblocks my mind. |
Depressive Illness
May 2006.
Earth
September 2006.
| When I die, they will probably cremate me And scatter my ashes on the lawn Then every time they water the garden The love will soak in. |
Words
October 2006.
Help
