My vivid imagination, and self-destructive ways have always left me morbidly obsessed with the macabre. I may be one of the only girls that has extensively planned my funeral and given no thought to a wedding...Previously, as an engaged 17 year-old, I had no interest in choosing gown, invitations, or guests.
I once read a book on suicide, something I had thought extensively about...my dramatic exit from earth...and it said that children who, when they were born, had stopped breathing for any amount of time were more likely to commit suicide and were less afraid of death. I was one of those babies that struggled thru great difficulties at birth. Many times I stopped breathing...and reading that book made me say, "Ahhh, the answer to why I am so weird."
I always read about what was wrong with me, relishing the tips and strategies I got from my research. I often wrote reports about what ailed me, and why not? I was doing the reading anyways, might as well get credit for it.
Back to my macabre mind though. I regard myself as a morbid being, yet cringe when I see someone in pain. Somehow, looking at death interests me- the pictures, video of, memoirs. But, I have a huge heart when it comes to the families.
I watched a classmate die in a car wreck mere months after my grandmother died in our home. I remember Grandma's journey into death and the wretched smell it produced. I remember the way her jaw fell lax and her eyelids fixed permenently on the ceiling. Hideous...not her death but the way our family crumbled under the weight of her will. Her estate is now gone, to lawyer fees...Ugh.
More ghastly than even that is the poetry I wrote during my most somber period. One titled, "The Ways I Would Kill You," written by and for me. Many establishing my self-loathing and what I would do if I had the strength...or cowardice to proceed. I now know that it takes more effort to live and that things are not as bad as they appear.
This obsession with death led to many dances with blades. It started out innocent enough, but became my quiet date with my own crimson lifeline, and as it poured down my slaughtered torso- the pain would drain as well. It was a coping mechanism- one I would never want to see someone else use. No one knew for the longest time, I would lock the bathroom door and hack away for a couple of hours- mesmerized by the velvet fluid that would spurt and flow, by the serenity that engulfed me as I had to sit from lightheadedness. Always after an argument with my mother, or a bad grade in school. My own form of punishment, I was judge, jury, and executioner.
Once found out, I used my habit as manipulation. Only to my mom and dad who had ruined my sacred ritual. I would fill a towel with blood and toss it into their room. I could hear her sob, hear him rant. What were they to do with me? I wish I knew.
But time helped me grow out of my macabre mind. And a baby. I played this from 12-15 years-old. Once I found myself pregnant I knew I had to pack the self-destructiveness away-postage paid to Hell...LOL. The urge is there when I am feeling despondent, but I have a fabulous support system around me, and haven't felt the need for quite some time.
I seem perfect in some of my writings, like maybe I have it figured out-and I don't. I wanted to give you a peek into the mind that writes hope now, because it had to be offered to me...Sometimes, when someone speaks of great things, like destiny and hope it is because they have reached the depths of despair. I am non-judgemental of you because I have been at my worst and extend an ear and hand to you now. A safe haven. They exist.
So, I will pack my macabre mind back into the dust layered box from where it emerged and put the rose-colored shades back on. Hope you enjoyed.
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