So. It’s sometime in the limbo part of the week. That for me is anywhere between Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. I don’t really know what time of week it is unless it is Monday or Friday. Mostly because I don’t do anything in my life, like at all.
Today I had an appointment and I had to waste a ton of time on the bus while this dude threw a little childlike tantrum. Made me late to my appointment. Thanks man.
So today is exactly 1 Year/365 Days since I last self harmed. The date (April 12th) is mildly inaccurate because I can’t remember the exact date of my last self harm episode, but I did find out that this date was the last time I attended my GP’s nurses rooms for a patch job.
And now, it’s over.
I am not going to count anymore days. I am not going to keep track for another year. I’m not making this a “birthday” as they do in the various AA/NA/Other recovery programs. When you reach a year of “without”, it’s considered a “1st Birthday”, and yes, often the recovery programs actually have cake at a person’s “birthday”.
It’s a year. It’s been long enough. I have enough stupid signs slung around my neck, enough stupid things floating over my head – like the green Plumbob in the Sims computer game series – “bipolar”, “selfharmer”, “addict”, “sick”, “crazy”, “insane”, “whack-job”, “mental patient”, “STAY AWAY” etc.
I don’t want to keep falling down this hole, I am so tired. I am so tired of being pigeon holed. So tired of being viewed as that person.
In the last year I have made the choice to not hide my physical scars in public as much as I once did. I went without long sleeves and leggings and people saw them. There were a few select occasions I chose to cover up, but mostly I was all out in the open.
And there were times I was ashamed, I was scared, I wanted to hide and run away. And sometimes, I did.
Today I stumbled into a conversation in the nurse’s waiting room (waiting for my flu jab) with a mother of two young girls also getting jabs. I mentioned that even with tattoos, I still hate flu shots! And then the mother made her knowledge of tattoos, and her dislike of them, very clear. She suggested that alcohol played a role in my getting of tattoos. And a young boy, perhaps 10yo, who was eating a green lollipop, piped up with “tattoos are bad!”. I was able to make my self harm scars somewhat less visible, but she stared at my knees on the way out.
I was pretty offended and a little hurt. I started thinking that I, in my white and pink “Unicorn Queen” tshirt with accompanying pink, glittery, unicorn related accessories, look like someone much different than I thought. I thought I might look like a person who is fun, kooky, funky, eclectic, weird but in a fun way.
And no, I should not care what other people think of me.
But I do.