40 Days and 40 Nights

[Trigger warning] self-harm 

Tomorrow, my countdown to Australia hits 40 days.
40 days.

Erm, how did that happen? I do not feel like I will be stepping on a plane in 40 days and heading off to the other side of the world.

I mean, that's only a month and a half. No, it's less! It's less than a month and a half! Unless that month is February. But that month is not February! 

I don't even feel remotely ready. So many things to do, so little time. When I keep getting days of nausea, and my head is bad or good or great or worse depending on the day, I wonder if I'm going to be ready. If I'm going to be okay. 

My biggest fear is that I won't cope. Won't cope being away from family, from friends, trying to get work, adjusting to customs, and the heat. And I haven't in the past been well known for my coping skills. 

In fact, I have a history of engaging in destructive behaviour as a way of coping. Selfish behaviour that I would say I will never fully exorcise from who I am today, or who I will become. 

Because the way I used to "cope" was with self-harm.

The reason I'm mulling over this in particular today is because I caught a glance at my arm. And the scars there are minimal, despite everything I inflicted on them. But the light caught them, and for a second my mind froze, and I thought to myself "ah yes, that's how I'll cope if things get bad."

No. No no no. 

I recognise that I will never get over that part of me. Not just because of the scars that remind me daily of my selfishness. But because a tiny part of me remembers the feeling of ecstasy with every cut. The bitter happiness. The feeling that I was taking control, of something, anything, at times when I felt nothing was ok. 

The cuts were my anger, directed at myself because I wanted to direct it at others and had been chastised for doing so. I still have anger management issues. I smashed a wall with my fist in Tombstone, Arizona, in an act I am so ashamed of I practically blank that night out from my memory. I was angry that I couldn't cope, that my brain wasn't processing shit properly. 

I am ashamed of my behaviour that night, and I am ashamed of all the times I harmed myself. Let me go back to the word I used above - it is selfish. And this selfishness is good and bad. It is bad because a self-harmer does not consider what effect their actions have on other people. Not until afterwards. When you are in such desperate need to hurt yourself, to numb the pain, to just cope, you are only thinking about yourself. And that is the good part. I am not advocating self-harm in anyway. I am simply saying that by taking your feelings into account, and trying to find an outlet for them, that is a good kind of selfish. But these actions you take have consequences, sometimes fatal, and always life-altering. 

It's okay to need to cope. And I can cope for the next 40 days. And the 40 days after that. And the next. I don't need that way of coping anymore. 

In my darkest times, it's comforting, like a reassuring hug. But I'm staying in the light. I'm "clean", and I'm staying that way. 

Those Walls I Built

It's very easy, when you're overwhelmed by emotion, or when you're feeling something you'd rather you didn't feel, to try and block it out. 

I'm good at steeling my heart against things, against people in particular. Acting cold towards someone is a defence mechanism, that I'm sure they can see through. But it makes me feel as though I'm dealing with it. As if it can't hurt me. I think that eventually it works its magic, and in the end I can deal with it because I've walled it up for so long. In fact, I'm undoubtedly processing those feelings and emotions constantly, and that's what gets me through it.

Whilst I am sort of fed up of feeling things for people and then having to stop myself from feeling those feelings, I guess that is life, and emotion is so important. It's vital to being empathetic to other people, to making friends; it's essential for falling in love.

The walls I try to build around my heart don't stop me crying at RSPCA adverts or the degeneration of an elderly man's - my elderly man's - mind. It didn't stop me crying when I moved house, or when my sister left, or when my mum moved away.

And sometimes it's easier said than done. Even when clothes I like the look of don't look good on me at all (I'm looking at you, blue sequin Lipsy dress) I don't automatically think "oh well it doesn't suit my body shape or my skin tone." I think "I'm fat, why are these arms even here, why doesn't it look on me like it did on the (tall, leggy, well-photographed and well-photoshopped) model?!" Sometimes reason is lost in emotion, and not even the best walls can stop you feeling crappy. 

And then, sometimes, aside from dealing with unrequited desires and not coping with rejection, the walls, and the emotion, are necessary. This morning walking to walk, I had a sense of futility and gloom. And it was confirmed when I got in and I felt overwhelmed, scared, and very alone.
But I took a moment to deal with those feelings. I felt the fear, the terror. And then I walled it up and got on with things.

But with every paper cut, with every phone call made and with the re-tying of my makeshift hairband, I was dealing with the feelings.  Those emotions, and my ability to deal with then, make me who I am. 

I just wish I was able to cope with all emotions, all the time. 
I suppose that's what the rest of my life is for.

You call it "nothing", a word to cover ignorance.

Ignorance would be bliss if it were ignorance we could be blame.


I am not very worldly. I have travelled, but never really immersed myself in another country's culture. Excluding Trek last November, I have never spent longer than 2 weeks in one country at a time. I've been to France a lot, but I barely speak the language and generally go with the prejudice that they hate vegetarians.

I don't speak any foreign language to an acceptable standard of fluency. And until recently I had never realised how little I sought out in knowledge about foreign countries, their cultures, and their history.

A couple of weeks ago I met Brian Avery, a US activist who spends a lot of time campaigning around the Israel/Palestine conflict. (His blog is here)

Before I met him, I quickly Wikipedia'd the conflict as it is one of those things I knew existed, but not why or for how long. I accepted it as part of our world, I had never questioned it before. I knew the names of the West Bank and the Gaza Strip and I've heard of Hamas as the baddies and that was it. The sum of my knowledge about what I now understand to be a complex war dating back 70 years.

I'm not going to pretend that an hour with Brian made me an expert. In fact, it made me even more confused.

I want to blame my own ignorance for not challenging my own thoughts on this. But it's a laziness to not discover more. It is a laziness that media outlets depend upon- that we will swallow their wisdom of the day on any given topic.
It's also a (terrible) way of trying to protect myself: I get so upset over the bad things in the world, I get so wound up about the killing and the hate (see this blog about my inability to cope with it). So if I seek out more knowledge of the awful things, surely I am just going to make myself more upset? There's nothing I can do about other countries problems, is there?
My ignorance would tell me there isn't. But knowledge is edging its way in. Knowledge that as an individual I can make a difference. If I understand more, then that already changes things a bit.

Australia is not a third world country (as my GP pointed out when I asked if I could get a years supply of the contraceptive pill). But that doesn't mean people don't need help. I will need to work in order to live. But I can surely find time to volunteer. It's my year, I can do what I want with it.

I have the opportunity to live in a country and get to know the people, the culture, the good and the bad. I'm not brave enough to go somewhere like Rwanda where my sister is, not yet. But I think this is a step in the right direction. A step away from ignorance.


*A big thank you to Danny Eve, whose random Doctor Who quoting on Twitter gave me the title for this blog!