Beauty From Pain

Chapter Two from the book Conscious...goes more in depth about her sickness and some of the extremes she suffers through

     I glance up from the paper, still averting my eyes away from the television, and begin thinking of what to write next.  Is my story even interesting?  To me it's just daily life, a hole that I've unfortunately fallen into and have now adapted to.  I know I'll never be able to climb out, so I've made a home from my surroundings.  How do I tell a story that is so personal and so controversial?  Now that I think of it, I've never been very good at sharing, whether it is life stories, feelings, or concerns.  I don't talk to my friends about anything personal, let alone my own family members.  I don't feel the need for people to know my actions and feelings.  They occur within me which means they should be kept to me.  Besides, nobody is concerned enough about me to actually listen to my hopes, dreams, and feelings.  It's that reasoning that causes me to hole emotions up for very long periods of time until I literally burst, which is usually through a few tears.  Even crying is unacceptable to me.  It leaves me feeling naked and vulnerable.  Only uncontrolled people who don't know how to handle themselves shed tears.  I always thought that people who cried were self-absorbed and only sobbed to confirm to themselves of how miserable they were.  Because of my disgust in crying I've recently found comfort in the sharp edge of a pair of scissors.  Tragic, I know, but to me it's simply a more adequate way to cope.  I never cut deep or often just, ironically, enough to heal.

     I pause in thought, searching my brain for reasons behind my horrid coping method.  My eyes trace the outline of a nearby lamp, as if I would miraculously find all my answers in the slope of its translucent shade.  I come up empty handed, and resort to digging back in my own brain.  Why do I self-injure and what could I possibly get from it?  I pause once more in contemplation.  That's it...I do it first to release my emotions and then punish myself for being so weak in the first place.  Again I think back, I've been "punshing" myself for the past two years.  I punish for frusteration, sadness, and weakness.  There have even been times when I've inflicted harm upon myself just so I can feel any amount of pain.  When it comes down to it, I penalize myself whenever I'm not feeling what is considered to be "normal".  It's after this thought that I pull myself out from inside my own mind.  I've had enough realization; back to the story.

 

     After dumping the contents of my tray, a strong feeling of control washed over my body and thats where it all began.  It was at that moment that I first began digging the very hole that I'm now trapped in.  It was over the next three weeks that I first began feeding obsessively from that controlled feeling.  My grandfather had just died and my parents also recently dropped the bomb that they were going through a divorce.  At that point of my life all I wanted was an ounce of control which is exactly what my new lifestyle offered to me.  Just knowing that I could control any part of my life, let alone of the most important parts, gave me such liberation and happiness.  I don't even want to discribe the feeling of losing three pounds a mere day, in fear of relinquishing its meaning and intensity.  But with every gain there is a loss.  Not only did I feel an insane amount of joy from starvation but I also felt worthless.  That feeling never left, due to the fact that I was succumbing to such a mindless lifestyle.  I both hated and loved myself for not being normal.  I hated that I couldn't eat without crying myself to sleep that night and happy because I was fortunate enough to know better than stuff my greedy face, unlike the people around me.  I was smart enough to stop the problem at its source and cut it off completely.

     However, there were also a few times when I crashed my plane of control into the devastating mountain of binge eating.  That feeling I can describe.  I would go home and look longingly into the kitchen, knowing that succulent food was an arms lengh away from me.  My stomach yells from its lair, and although my mind said no, my body always guides me to the cupboards.  I wrap my gluttoneous fingers around a box of Cap'n Crunch and retreat to my room.  Its there that I sat and devoured not only handful after handful but also my pride and confidence.  Afterwards I thought that I'd be okay, that maybe this binge would force me into a state of recovery, that deep down I knew I so desperatly needed.  Unfortunately, not even an hour later the feeling of despair covered me.  It laid on me like a thick woolen blanket, tangling around my feet so as I couldn't release myself from its constricting grasp.  Like clockwork, I sullenly walked into the bathroom to search for my savior; a pair of scissors.  With these I cut away the blanket, but instead of wool I was aimed for skin.  The feeling of cold metal searing hot skin is my release and my coping method to the sins I commit.  After those episodes, along with a small mental pep talk, I'd be motivated enough to once again return to my habit.  After all of that stress, worry, and battle of emotions I would always return to Ana.  The best thing about all of this is that no matter what she would always accept me, but only have I perform a ritual to show my dedication.  Usually that ritual was the simple edge of a blade; however, this time it will be a finger down my throat and the sight of a toliet bowl for an hour.  I can't lift my head until I sacrifice every ounce of my previous sin to Ana.

 

     You've committed the ultimate sin!  You must sacrifice your contents to show your complete dedication to me!  I will not accept you until then!

     Her voice calls to me from inside my head as my stomach clenches and contracts in agony.  I need to give up everything.  I shove my fingers deeper and deeper down my throat, forcing my sins to spew into the bowl at my feet.

 

     You're not finished!  I know you're still full of sin and evil.  I know you can't live without me; don't think you can.  You say you can gain confidence back and be strong again but you CAN'T!

     She screams at me.  Tears, forming from guilt and hate, stream steadily down my face.  The rancid smell of bile wafts up my nose, helping me even more to expel myself.  My stomach is sore and my throat burns, but I know I can't stop now.  This was the only way to gain back her trust, her love, and I know that she was right by saying I couldn't live without her.  This is the ultimate test of dedication.

     When I'm emptied I collapse beside the toilet and wrap myself around its base.  Cool porcelain presses against my hot face.  It also seeps through my shirt, calming my burning and aching abdomen.  I lay in the position for what seems like an eternity before finally mustering the strength to hoist myself up.  I wobble uneasily on sea legs and grab hold of the edge of the seat to steady myself.  My gluttony lies in the bowl below me and I force myself to turn away to keep from gagging.  My stomach can't handle anymore of that.  I close the lid and flush away my past, my sins, and my betrayal.  I need to rest for a while longer and at that thought I take a seat on the floor.  The wall I lean against presses painfully into my protruding spine as I try to recover from my episode.  Tears begin to form once again from pain, pity, and worthlessness.  I hate what I've become and I hate what I'd be if I tried to change.  I'm stuck in a hole of despair and hate and I have no idea how to escape.

Author's Note

Again grammer problems etc...feel free to point those suckers out so I can fix them.
Also...do you think this is too short to be considered a chapter...it does to me. Should I lengthen it?

Reviews

[Skye Jules]

Jsut to just--yeah...that's a typo I found
Anyways...this story is really deep. In my own novel, which is fantasy, not the genre you write, my character self-injures...although I had to shape her over the years to seem less whiny and more realistic. But this is really deep stuff that you've just gotta get out there. Self-injury is real, and I think it's about time that more people than just us know about it.