Random, par for the course.

I used to cut myself.


No, I know.  Pause.  No substance to that.  It's no secret.  I have scars from others, and scars from myself decorating my body like a graffiti-ed bridge. So while it's not entirely my own doing, I've contributed to the mapwork maze of emotional tumult. It's not something I'm proud of.  I chalk it up to a lack of an outlet for a girl with a fragmented thought process.  We all have our days, don't we?



Sometimes I look at my body and I hate what I see.
 All the time I look at my body and hate what I see.

I try to forgive myself for my past, and yet I find myself holding myself accountable for it everyday.  I don't like to place blame but it sits, squarely on my shoulders, gnawing at my brain and beating me to let it in.  This is where I pretend to be strong, but unfortunately I lack the motivation to do so.  I question why all the time, at that. At some point, does a person finally realize its better to give up on themselves than to continue to fight for their own being?  If one gives up, what happens?  Do they live droll and zombified, or are they more schooled in 'the way things really are'? I wonder how close I am to finding out.


adieu.

"and then something invisible snapped
inside her,
and that which had come together
commenced to 
f a l l   a p a r t "

Let it all burn...

Things have been interesting lately.  A roller coaster of highs and lows and sideway spins.  I think I'm going to have a mega update next week.  This could be good or bad.  You'll decide though, won't you ma petit souks?

Lolla, Holla, and a few ow ow's for good measure.

Before I begin, let me just say that my email was filled with love from my readers, and I honestly appreciate it.  I apologize from my departure from the blogosphere (especially to you who have been with me from the ice/princess days!) and I didn't intend for it to be that long.  But as you well know, ice pops and procrastination pretty much side tracked me.

Moving along.  I wrote up a huge entry about Lollapalooza.  How much I loved it.  How much fun I had.  How much I miss being in "Lollaland".  However when I read it back to myself, I realized it didn't properly encapsulate just how amazing (see? already lacking superlatives) that weekend really was.  So I will leave it as a memory that I hold dear.  To incredible friendships that blossomed, to a wealth of new music I fell in love with, to a few bitsy mistakes, and to Pete Samson, a man who's identity absolutely baffled us during our hotel stay (inside jokes, inside jokes!).

Now then.  In a conversation with the lovely Miss Shayla (one of my favoritest readers from back when I was an incoherent twenty year old) we mentioned a familiar blog I had done regarding introspection and random facts.  I'm a lover of privacy, and yet I never fail to divulge useless pieces of information about myself.  Got a survey to fill out? I'm there.  It's the most passive form of getting to know someone, and I am all over that.  Coincidentally enough in looking back on the internet at Ye Olde Blog (of which the url I will not divulge; I was eleventy times more out there then than I am now. Plus reading that blog will leave you wanting a Klonopin cocktail) today, 10 years ago I wrote an entry entitled, "The Dirty Thirty".  That entry listed a few random facts about myself that I found interesting, weird, or just absolute space fillers. And I think you can by now figure out where we are going with this.  So, without further ado, may I present The Dirty Thirty; 2011 edition.


1. I like to cook, and habitually bake cookies for people for no reason.

2. I have a deep and profound love for the 3am hour.  I feel like I'm at my most creative then.  Usually I'm writing or painting around that time of night.

3. I will buy and wear any hat, no matter how ridiculous.  If it's knit, that's an even bigger plus.

4. Considering I grew up in the upper middle class suburbs, I have a deep love for all things hip hop. Oh! and also movies about gang life.

5. If I get a crazy idea, don't be surprised if I do it soon after.  I'm incredibly impulsive.

6. The only thing that trumps my impulsiveness is my ability to procrastinate. Womp womp.

7. I habitually dye my hair red, because when my hair is a normal color I don't feel like 'me'.

8. I lose my shoes when I drink. And let me just elaborate on that everyone thinks this is hilarious while I think it's mystifying.  I genuinely do not know at what point my shoes come off, let alone how I always end up wandering perilous streets with no footwear to speak of.  This habit has caused me to drastically rethink shoes I plan to where when I go out, because I would die if I lost a pair of Louboutins. Die. Dead.

9. I'm pretty sure I'm in the process of a quarter life crisis.  Not that it's in a negative way, I just took this entire year to look at my life and change everything up.

10. I love white wine.  Which is ironic because in my younger years I refused to drink anything other than vodka.  But now it's all about white wine.  And whiskey.  Love whiskey.

11. When the travel bug hits, I can't NOT pack up and go.  I need to see the entire world, one country at a time.  So far I've circled the globe twice.

12.  I advocate fiercely for a cause I believe in.  With that being said, if I feel like you are getting in on something just to garner attention, I'll tell you.  No time for fakes.

13. Music is life.  Yes I sound 12 when I say that, but it's true. I couldn't live without music in my life.

14.  My friends kept me going through the hardest times in my life.  When i felt like I couldn't take another step, they were always there. Aww!

15. I love the color green.  I own too many green nicknacks just because they are green.

16. The best advice I ever received was from a homeless man.  He told me, "Love everyone around you. Love them and hug them and love them".  It still stands to be one of the best conversations I've ever had.

17.  I dislike talking on the phone.  Texting and Facebook is so much easier.  I will talk on the phone if inebriated.  In those instances, I never shut up. Ever. As an addendum, I'd have to say I'm also a horrible drunk texter.

18. There's a time period in my life that was insane and I hung out with some really cool musicians, and I miss every single one of the people who went through it with me.  When we all talk now, it's super awkward.

19. I have a series of scars on my arms that everyone asks about.  I don't think I've ever given anyone the true story behind them, though the basic story usually has to do with raptors or angry dwarf hampsters.

20. The smell of maple syrup makes me want to vomit profusely a la Exorcist.  Same with the consistency of egg nog.

21. I can't stand "chick flicks".  They bore the hell out of me.  You go ahead and watch one; I'll take a nap.

22. I love 80's sitcoms.  I could watch Mr. Belvedere eleventy times over.

23.  I love the word eleventy.  I've used it since I was a wee Khan.

24. I'm a sucker for a guy with great manners.  There are far too many uncouth souls out there.

25. Yep. 30  31 years old.  Still scared of the dark.  Won't sleep in total darkness, ever. Freaks me the fuck out.

26.  I'm struggling for anything to fill in here, though I can honestly say I don't find any of this interesting at all.

27. Right now I'm wearing a striped shirt, a striped bra, striped pants, and striped underwear.  None of the patterns match.  Significance? None. I just realized this.

28.I have a tendency to be too open-mouthed when I drink.  I'll talk up anyone which tends to be a problem as usually those people turn out to be demi-serial killers.

29. I want to learn how to speak an obscure language.  However I know if I do, I won't really have anyone to converse with. Thus, the dilemma.

30. I love winter.  There is something about the acerbic bite of a subzero wind that catches my breath and makes me feel alive.


The end. ow ow.

#Living

Have you ever really taken time out to look back upon your life?

I don't mean with regret.  I mean with an impartial eye, as if your life is a movie you had no knowledge about.  Something you turned on in a moment of boredom, a fit of desperation.  Have you ever realized how interesting the things you have gone through could be? Or worse, would you be bored?

I always felt that my life was a series of disastrously hilarious moments.  I've fallen, I've risen, and I've come back for more each time.  The one thing I can say is I do not regret.

Some of the people around me don't live this way.  They seem content to wallow in their own misery.  To let the proverbial bull run by while sitting on the sidelines, watching it go.  They don't move forward but rather dwell in a world where they can remain comfortable, safe, and completely self absorbed.  I guess this is something that fascinates me and saddens me at the same time.  I want to see the people around me succeed because they push themselves outside of their comfort level.  Smash those walls.  Break the conformity.  Live well. Relish in the awkward.

Back in 2003 I took a spur of the moment vacation to Pakistan.  I felt this pull to travel all the time throughout life, and with everything going on in the media about terrorism and my homeland I felt that I needed to escape there and see for myself.  I was terrified. My thought process was that I would get whisked away by some masked strangers (not ninjas or jabbawockeez, which would be incredibly cool and not terrifying) and end up on a CNN looped broadcast while Wolf Blitzer sat smugly, twirling his bowtie. But I leapt without looking and entered a world I honestly thought existed only in my dreams.

Pakistan is everything you DON'T see in the media.  The people are gracious and welcoming.  The country itself is beautiful and I really can't think of an adjective that fully encompasses the landscape of this place.  There are mountains. Rivers. Deserts.  Streams.  Forests.  It's a gorgeous country with so much natural beauty you tend to forget the political landscape and religious tumult going on around you.

This trip was different because it was a landmark of sorts.  I was celebrating by traveling abroad solo for the first time (of course, I would pick a country so entrenched in turmoil to visit solo, like a boss) and I felt absolutely liberated.  Also, I had planned to sneak into the country without the fanfare of my extended family.  I wanted to see things on my own terms, without the obligation to have tea with everyone, their mother, their mother's mother, and so on until I was basically steeped in a mugful of chai with elaichi. I decided on the plane that I would stay away from the larger cities for the most part, and travel to Northwest Frontier Province, a sort of homage to my father's days in the army.

The Northwest Frontier Province is a very rough area.  There is no wealth among the people, most are nomadic and very deeply involved in their religion.  So imagine my surprise when my Americanized ass was warmly welcomed by strangers everywhere.  I would have thought that the red streaked hair, tattoos, and laughable language would have instantly gotten me tossed into an underground cave somewhere but instead I was greeted with love from strangers.

My cousin and I traveled with a group of guides (who carried machine guns, but that's a story for a different day) and horses to carry us across the more rough terrain.  We lived in canvas tents for a week, bundled up against the harsh mountain wind in sweaters and blankets and adrenaline. We spoke with children in the villages and many of them were as perplexed with the terrorism ideology they were being branded with as we were. I was proposed to three times (and found out my net worth in the land was 5 camels, two oxen, and 800,000 rupees, holla!)  Most importantly though, I found in myself something I didn't think existed: strength.

By the end of my trip I realized I could do things I never imagined.  I climbed.  I fished.  I managed without running water, or a proper bathroom.  I didn't need makeup, hair products, or fashionable clothes.  That trip was me in my most basic form; humanity bleeding outward.  It is an experience I think about every day, because without it I'm not sure of the person I would be today.

So my dears, the moral of this story is experience every opportunity you can.  Challenge yourself.  Live without warning.  You don't know what experience in your life will change you forever.  Get off the couch.  Be the best version of yourself that you can be.

Love.

Live.

Inspire.

transportation at Jheel Saiful Muluk

a woman's work-naran valley

the view we woke up to. not even kidding. amazing. kaghan. 

Sumi's Guide to Being a Polite Concert-Goer While Still Rocking your Face off.

I remember my first concert.  It was 1990, and I was full on rocking the fucking house in my scrunchie socks, neon pink half shirt, and acid-washed tight rolled Z Cavariccis (did I mention what a mini-style maven I was?).  My hair was crimped (thank you, ConAir Geometrix) and I had a sign that said, "I LOVE YOU DONNIE" in honor of my favorite New Kid on the Block.  I had a handful of fan letters shoved into my back pocket, mostly pleas inviting the New Kids to come hang out at my house and letting them know that if their tour bus ever broke  down I would be more than willing to put them up during their time of need.  I was an uber fan, and this concert would be the apex of many months of scrounging my allowance for nosebleed tickets.  I don't remember much of the show other than I think I screamed until I lost my voice, I had the right stuff (oh oh oh oh oh), and at some point some girl gave me a death stare because my poster blocked her line of vision.

This would be the first in a line of many, many shows to come.

During my late teens/early 20s, live music kept me going.  Each week started out with a schedule in how to arrange studying time around shows.  I spent a lot of time in high school at Fireside Bowl in Chicago (for those of you who aren't familiar, it was this old bowling alley slash concert venue) huddled in a group of other teenage miscreants nodding my head along to some screaming punk beast while watching another guy windmilling in the center of the floor.  I spent a lot of time in college at the Bowery Ballroom, anxious to see and be seen by some of the best bands you have never heard of.  I dated a few musicians (some of whom,based on this blogs share of reader demographics, are probably on some of your ipods) and have seen concerts and shows from the back, front, above, below, all over.  And to date I still voraciously search out great live music, if not for the fact that I love music but also the concert experience.

Last night I attended a show headlined by Florence + The Machine, and her opener was a demon on the guitar, Hanni el Khattib.  The show of course, was amazing, but it got me thinking of how horrendously impolite some people can be at shows.  Okay, I get it.  You paid money for tickets.  Maybe your parents did.  Maybe your boyfriend/girlfriend/molester uncle did.  But that does not mean you can't have common decency, something that seems to be lacking around the music scene lately.  Below are a few bullet points(because  yes, Sumi K can indeed be organized!) of what you can do, to make yourself a person less likely to either get punched or get a total stinkeye from someone at a show.

• Ladies, girls, people with horse appreciation and men with Goliath complexes.  Keep a hair tie with you.  There is nothing worse than jumping around and getting some stranger's hair in your mouth, eyes, or mucus membranes.  I get you want to do the whole bohemian thing, but THINK OF THE CHILDREN.  Anytime someone's hair whips me in the face (big ups, Willow Smith) I spend the next ten minutes in a state of total panic, wondering if the person has lice or earwigs or some other garden creature roaming in their mane.  If you need a hair tie, please find me at the show.  I always have a few on me.
• Moshing.  My very first pit was a terrifying experience.  I was sidearmed into a Pantera pit while trying to squeeze my way up close to the front for some pictures from my disposable camera (remember those?).  I suddenly found myself surrounded by large burly skinheads who immediately saw my wide-eyed terror and pulled me out instantly.  You see? That's polite.  I get that girls want to be equal and all, but in the pit where the testosterone is full to bursting, there is no equality.  Unless you are an olympic female sumo wrestler in which case I say to you, mosh on my friend (and please look out for me should I ever get pushed into a pit again).  I've held my own in other pits, and everytime, the guys look out for the girls.  Chivalry at it's finest!  However you don't see that shit at all nowadays.  Now the pits are filled with raging jocks who want to show off their chests and perhaps bash some skulls.  Recently at a concert during a set by Seether I witnessed a pit open up near where I was standing.  I had some big dude next to me and I don't really care for Seether (okay, I can't stand them.. except for that new Country Song which is fabulous) so I was content to watch what transpired.  A bunch of 16-21 year old boys flailing into people, not caring who they hit.  Anytime a girl was pushed into the mix she was fair game to be punched and hit.  Seriously, dudes.  Look out for your fellow concert goers.  As much as -you- want to mosh, the person next to you does not want to get dragged into your melee because you are too fucking drunk to see where you are going.  Please and thanks.
• Drinking. Okay, we all know that Sumi K loves her some white wine.  That being said, the worst thing to happen to a person at a show is to be forever pegged as, 'That person who threw up at the (insert band name here) show'.  Case in point, at a recent show (that I chronicled in an earlier entry) up in Wisconsin, I had to take a terrifying walk down a stairwell that was literally covered in vomit because some kid couldn't handle his beer.  I threw the shoes out as soon as I walked out of the venue.  Fucking gross.  Last night at the Florence show, as I was weaving my way out of the crowd there was a girl who was bombed out of her mind and ready to puke.  Her to friends were of no help as they were pretty far gone as well.  I had to laugh as a good looking guy standing in front of them turned around, grabbed the girl by the shoulders and gave her a little shake.  She smiled drunkily at him until he said, "If you or your friends puke on my shirt, I will fucking key your car, you bitch".  Hilarious, and a man after my own heart. Take into consideration the heat, the lack of air circulation, the proximity of bodies to yours, and you will really want to rethink that third or fifth cocktail.  
• Ease up on the perfume/cologne.  But make sure to wear deodorant.  This is a really slippery slope, but it is something that needs to be addressed.  Girls- your perfume SUCKS.  While it might smell good to you in the privacy of your home, a single dab behind the ears works.  Other people around you think you smell like an old ladies handkerchief.  Likewise with cologne.  Do not bathe in Coolwater before you step your shirtless self into a pit area.  You will make people sick and they may vomit on you (and then you'd be known as 'the person who puked at so and so show'.. see how this goes full circle?).  With all that being said, PLEASE wear deodorant.  Not Axe, not body spray, but honest to god antiperspirant and deodorant.  Seriously people.  Especially if you plan to walk around shirtless.  No one needs your sweaty armpit hair dripping in vile odorous sweat hanging in their face.  The least you can do is take a few swipes of a speed stick under your arms (ladies, that goes for you, too.  Take the money you would spend on that last beer (because I'm pretty sure you'll be paying close to 8 dollars for it) and buy a deodorant or two.  Everyone around you will thank you later.
• Have some respect for who is playing for you.  If you don't like the opener, cool.  That's your prerogative.  With that being said, some people do.  For you to stand there like a four year old with your hands over your ears (yes, this happened last night at the Florence show) and yelling "Boooooo" in a sickly monotone voice makes you an asshole.  
• Have FUN. I know this advice seems like it goes without saying, but how many times do you see someone with a prime spot at a show, and they are disinterested in doing anything other than texting, or nudging their friend, or (gasp) yawning?  I can see this happening at, say, a Nickelback show (do they even tour? Do people even listen to them?) but some of the most recent shows I've been at, I've witnessed more texting action than ever before.  You could easily give up your spot to someone in the back, who is much more willing to rock their face off.  Better yet, disconnect.  Enjoy what's going on around you. Trust me, your Facebook friends will survive without you for an hour or two.  

I know this seems a little preachy, but let's be realistic.  All of these are simple little tips that really don't take that much effort!  However, don't get me started on festivals; because with those comes a whole slew of new rules to be chronicled at some point in the distant future (helpful hint: deodorant has a starring role).

The Godsmack crowd, from the balcony where all the cool guys sit.

Disturbed crowd from above, again, cool guy spot.

30 Seconds to Mars at Jamboree.  The only band for whom I will put up with  novices in a pit area for. <3

Hanni el Khattib.  He's fantastic; you should check him out.  Now.

The captivating Florence Welch.

A text message I received. And a succinct description of how it makes me feel.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but you're a beautiful monster.  Literally a gorgeous abomination of a human psyche. I want to taste your fragmented existence."

And you thought your comrades were eccentric.  Oddly enough, this is the first time this individual has ever said something so beautiful to me. I'm not quite sure how I feel about it.  Raw, mostly.  Recycled back into a time when I was a lot less jaded and a lot more willing to give a fuck.

Listen to this whole song.  It will eat away at your soul; it's just that beautiful.

Choking on dust

I never intended this to be a serious blog, and yet I find myself wanting to vent out shit that has really been weighing on my mind lately.  Sorry in advance to the people who expected the badly drawn pictures and hopeless insanity that seemed to litter the old blog, as well as entries within this one.  But if I'm planning to be perfectly honest, I'm really not feeling that type of vibe lately, you dig?

2010 was pretty rough.  To recap: life at Khan Castle was permeated with a sinister cloud of bad luck (for those of you who have read this for a while, you know the details) that included but didn't leave out death, illness, and a general sense of unease.  When 2011 came rolling through, there was a hopeful sense of optimism that maybe, just maybe, this year would be better.

And it has been.  I can't deny that.  Wounds slowly heal, regardless of how much you pick at a scab.  Eventually you learn to smile again.  You don't focus so much on what could have, should have been.  Things slowly fall back into a pattern of normalcy you are used to. And yet, it doesn't.

Does that make sense? I have a hard time verbalizing how I feel, and I think that writing it out has the same sense of confusion and dubiety.  Its an overall feeling of dissension simmering just beneath the surface skin, threatening to agitate the false normalcy into a frenzied state of cacophonous malaise.  What's the catalyst?  We're both standing face to face, neither of us willing to see what's transpired between us. It's not pretty, and I'm not quite sure either of us care enough any more do anything to rectify it.  We've gone too far, and seem to much and have both been left to lick our wounds in private.  It's the burden that we bear.

I think tragedy has a way of bringing far people closer, and close people further from one another.  It's the only way I can really justify why I sit here passively day by day, watching what we once had crumble into an ashen pile of regrets.  I can't stop it, and to be one thousand percent fair, I'm not even sure it could use a resurrection at this point.  It's blatant that our lives are headed in two separate directions with no sign of convergence on the path.

I'm really not sure what the near future brings.  You'll be all over the world.  I'll be living my own life, and we steadily distance ourselves from one another.  Maybe I'll see you next week or next month or next year.  Maybe we'll just both disappear.  This is all sounding so dark, and I'm sorry for that.  I honestly don't see it that way.  It could be a good thing, right?

I'm not a hero, and I don't like pain, but words express feelings and emotions, and they can't last forever.



Sorry.

My life is awesome.

This.

plus.

This.

plus.

This.

plus.

This.

=

My life, being awesome.

And I'm out.

Live without warning

Ignore the title.  After all, those are not directions I tend to follow anymore(edit: i just totally confused myself with this one.  im blaming ambien).  For example, currently it is 1:41am central standard time.  The moon is a strange color and is postulating in an eerie sense underneath the veil of fog that seems to want to bind and fuck that moon.  I've had some drinks tonight.  I've popped an ambien and I'm at the stage where I am seeing things.  And here, I sit.  Listening to 'Hurricane' on repeat for three songs, and then skipping to 'Alibi' for three songs, and continue ad nauseam.  I told myself I wouldn't write this entry today.  In fact, you couldn't blame me if I stopped.  My pajamas are half on, my hair in a ponytail, not a trace left of the smoky eye makeup I fancy so much.  So I'm feeling quite a bit vulnerable.  I can still feel his sweat on my skin and it is making me shudder.

This evening the plan was to go see a band (who will not be named, to protect the guilty) that my nephew loves. LOVES. I'm talking fist pumping, all capslock, LOVE.  Since the show was in Wisconsin, we road tripped it.  I remained noncommital on who else would be attending, only because the worst scenario ever could go down, and I really did not want that to happen, at all.  Moving along while I take you on the vague path to vagueville, I was walking up the backstairs to get into the vip balcony seats.  It was about two hours before the show was even to start but I figured I'd find a good perch and commence the drinking.  And then, it happened.

I didn't see him at first, but I felt him. Yes, that sounds creepy.  No, it really wasn't.  However it was awkward.  He (names omitted to protect the barely innocent) immediately grabbed me in a hug while two of his band members did the nervous shuffle-checkphone-lookoverthere thing that I wished I was doing.  It was a hug that lasted slightly too long, it was slightly damp, and I was kinda perplexed about it considering the last time I was in a room with him and his bandmates I told him to go fuck himself with a rake sideways, and he lunged to either eat my brain or chew off my face.  Not sure what his tactic would have been.  Either way, it was interesting.  I detached as quick as was polite and ran up to the balcony so I could peek down at the revelers below.

Take two.  I stopped writing this blog last night as I realized Three's Company was on, and I chose to eat some popsicles and watch that instead until I inevitably passed out from a combination of pharmaceuticals and faux exhaustion.  So let me pick up where I left off, only now this entry is sure to be lacking a bit of pizazz.

 I had plenty of time during the shitty opening act to let my mind wander, and right after some hilarious texting regarding my boyfriend's new nickname being 'Captain Brittania', I was haunted once more by the same creature from my past.

He apparently couldn't leave well enough alone as he stalked over to me, and grabbed my arm.  I was slightly confused as he had a hoodie on, and sort of looked menacing.  I was pretty sure that he had a fleeting thought about punching me in the ladyparts, but that's neither here nor there.  What transpired was an apology, for nearly attacking me, and that I didn't deserve it then.

WHAT!?! I was fucking floored.  Way to completely change the way I saw a person.  Even his professional image belied the words he said.  But there it was, spelled out before me, with an expectant impish grin waiting my acceptance?  So what could I do, at that point?  Considering that chapter of my life has long since been closed, it never left anything other than fond memories and a slight amount of shame, and my life is completely different from the person I was back then, would I really be petty enough to deny him that? Nah. So we toasted to old memories, old tour bus escapades, and whatever the future brought to both of us, independently.  He no longer had a weight of guilt on his shoulders, and let's face it.  I had comped drinks the rest of the night. Huzzah!

Revisiting the Dark Times

i guess you could say it began the summer before freshman year.

filled with the prospects of an entirely new existence in high school,  i was quite the exuberant ingenue.  it was a rather repressing two years in middle school, the formative years, they say.  it was then that i learned of the cattiness of other females.  then that i felt how deep a wound words can inflict.  then that pain was taken and stored away into a mental box, created of thin  plywood, wrapped neatly with a velveteen ribbon.  it was that time of year when i met a boy who changed the way i saw things.

to protect the (plausibly) innocent, names are being left out.  but im sure everyone can recall the rush of blood to the surface skin, the tingling sensation of young love/lust/curiosity.  this boy spent alot of time in my company, and we spent the heat of the summer at a local park, wrapped in each others embrace.  sordid, i tell you.  but as summer came to a close, so did the affliction of a boys affection.  i never spoke to him beyond our last tryst ,  and when i went home i felt this unrequitted emptiness.

leave a girl alone with her thoughts, and a lot can happen.

i recall a night alone in my room, listening repeatedly to my Better Than Ezra cd, stuffing a towel under my bedroom door so i could sit at the window and smoke a parliment light (without inhaling, of course) and breathing in my own misery mixed with the scent of egyptian mist incense. i dont know what first made me grab for it, but it was easily within reach, as were random odds and ends i had always scattered around my bedroom.  i do, however, remember the first tearing sensation as the safety pin cut into the virgin surface of my ankle.  i felt that familiar rush of blood, the swelling of the surface skin, and that night i fell asleep; serene and problem free.

this was repeated numerous times, different tools to impliment the visual raping of my skin. a pin, a paperclip (unbent), a razorblade, a pencil eraser (yes, it burns the flesh off slowly, tortuously), and the big time: a fresh exacto knife.

Now some of you might be reading this and wondering to yourself how fucked up i am, exactly.  truth be told, this is merely a diatribe of past transgressions. moving right along..

 I was always careful to hide my cuts, preserving the areas i dwelled upon with the flick of subtlety to my thighs, the backs of my legs, my upper arms.   a slice for a bad grade, a scratch for an arguement with any one of the suitors i had at any given time, a sharp splinter drawn off for the sheer hell of it. and at that point, it progressed.


i didnt cut all the time.  mainly when something became too harsh for me to bear, it became my skin's responsibility to carry the burden of my emotional instability.  sometimes, many times, my life was pretty free from troubles.  but other times, the worst times, i lashed out physically onto myself, carving my own inefficience at coping.  sometimes it was so bad that the scars became visible to all who noticed.And sadly, I wasn't the only to participate.  I was weak, and someone else began to inflict the same type of pain upon me.  Why not? I'm sure he thought.  He wouldn't take any blame for it since it was something I did to myself, too.  I was more ashamed of these than anything, and  I spent two years trying to hide the six jagged stripes upon my left forearm, and the deep gashes upon my right bicep.  Not many know those were someone else's creation.  I merely allowed them to think I was the maestro of this type of artistry, to avoid the shame of letting someone break me down into nothing. 

i dont know why i quit cutting. it just stopped, as quickly as it set on.  i dont think i can replicate the feeling i used to get out of it. maybe it was a game best left in the box, bundled up with a few pieces missing, left behind and almost forgotten.

self destructive, you say.  fuck that.  self preservation, i say. 






I've edited to add that this is a blog I posted in 2007.  It's amazing to me how memories can come full circle only to play on repeat again in a few years time.  It seems to be a persistent niggling feeling that lies dormant until it hits once more, full throttle and piercing into my skull until I want to shriek and pull at my flesh.  In the same vein, it is comforting to be awash in these familiar feelings.  It reminds me that I can, in fact, feel.  Survival.  Always a common song we sing.