in control
(monologues)one
It's something that never ends.
It's never over. You think that it is, but it's not. You think that you have everything planned out, but you don't. You think you're in control, but you're not, you're not, you're spiraling away from control and dangerously close to insanity and everything is so confused and blurry that you don't know anything…
Except that you think that it was over a long time ago.
It's not.
Those scars… they'll fade. Fade, yes. Go away completely? No. They'll never go away completely. They'll always be there, faint, pale lines against your skin, peeking out from under tons of bracelets and bangles.
You wear the bangles to hide the scars. You wear the bangles to cover up those marks that decorate your skin. Why cover them? Why act so paranoid? Sooner or later, someone's going to know. And someone's going to know because you showed them, you rolled your sleeves up and showed them. Hey, look, you've got scars. Ouch, they must have hurt. Guess how they got there? I cut myself. Yes, that's what you'll say, you want to say it, scream it, shout it out loud for everyone to hear…
But you can't. You know that if you do, people won't talk to you. They'll look at you like they looked at you, back in the psychiatrist's office. Wide eyes. Some fear, but more pity. They'll look at you like you're a wounded animal. They say they want to help you but they're scared of what you might do to them. That's why you don't tell anyone.
That's why you convince yourself it's over. So that you can look them, look the world, straight in the eyes and lie that you're perfectly alright.
You'd like for all of this to go away. You regret what happened. You're a normal person, now, though, so it doesn't really matter anymore. It only matters when you fall. When you trip and stumble and for a minute find yourself facing what you're running from. When you find yourself getting upset for no reason. When you think everyone is talking about you. Look at them, whispering. They're talking about you, about how mad you really are, about what you did and what you're trying to hide. That's when it all matters, that's when the scars and the cuts and pain you felt matters.
It felt good, didn't it? Those few times… The first few times weren't much. You didn't really feel anything, they were just skin cuts. Someone said something about this. Self-mutilation. Pain to take away the other pain. The other pain of not being accepted, of being different, so different that everyone ran away from you. That's when you began this. Cutting, scratching. Looking for blood under your fingernails. Holding the blade between shaking fingers and closing your eyes when you tried to do something, but never pressing hard enough.
It was just that feeling of being in control of what you were doing that made you press harder. For once, for one small second, you had total direction over what you were doing. It was your life, and you could choose to hack away at it with the blade. And that's when you began to draw the blade across you wrists harder, that's when you never let the wounds heal, scratching at them and reopening them, rubbing your sleeves together until your skin was raw and bloody.
You enjoyed that feeling. The sharp pain of metal against flesh, blood trickling over skin. You enjoyed the pain and the high, the rush of adrenaline from doing something so taboo.
What made you come down was the guilt. The guilt after cutting, the horrible feeling that you had just betrayed everyone by doing this. By hurting yourself, you hurt everyone and anyone close to you. What would they say? What would they do? You couldn't tell them what you were doing; they'd throw you into a mental institute. And that would be if you were lucky. But the guilt was too much to bear alone… you had to tell someone. Somebody, you have to trust someone, that's the only way out of this.
Do you trust anyone now? After the way you were betrayed? After the one person whom you trusted enough to turn to went and told everyone, everyone, she told everyone your little secret? Can you trust anyone now and tell them that you would gladly do it again?
Not really.
It's not over. It's definitely not over. You know it's not over. Not while that blade sits on the side of the basin, silver edge marred with old bloodstains. You can't be over it…
You can't. You can't because you never stopped to begin with. Sure, the scars on your arms are fading… The ones everyone can see. They just don't know that there are other, more painful places to hurt yourself apart from your wrists.
Other places.
You know that you can't get out of this, right? You know that it never ends… and you're perfectly happy with that now. After all… you're finally in control.
two
Sometimes, I look at perfection. Sometimes, I look at it, stare at it. For a long time. Hours, even. I stare and stare and stare until my neck is stiff and I feel incredibly cold, and my head hurts and I see stars… that's how long I look at it. Perfection.
It's beautiful, though, it makes everything worth it. Just being able to see something so beautiful, so fascinating, something so perfect… it's all worth it. Beauty. Beauty and perfection. Perfection like this is hard to find. I looked everywhere for it… looked everywhere. Only to find it staring me in the face. I can create perfection. I can see perfection in whatever I want to.
I can see perfection in the pain. In the hurt. In the despair. That's where I can find perfection.
Perfection.
Perfection is a blood-stained razorblade and torn flesh. Perfection is…
Being in control.
That's all it is.
Perfection.
three
Don't be afraid.
It's not the cutting that'll kill you; it's them. The world. Too much pressure, too much. They'll suck you dry and still not be satisfied.
They'll do anything possible to push you down. You know that. It's how the world works. You're just another brick in the wall. Manufactured for society. Obey society's rules.
Well. Fuck society then.
Fuck them and their mindless rules and silly games. They will push you over the edge one day. Maybe they already have. No one in their right mind hurts themselves.
Or maybe…
Maybe it's society that's insane. Maybe you're the only sane one; maybe the only reason why you can still think straight is because you're bleeding society out of your system. Cutting them off before they kill you. Yes, that's it. You're the only one.
Alone.
The only one.
The only one in control.
You control your actions. Society dictates what you're supposed to do but… isn't it supposed to be your choice? At the end of the day, isn't it up to you what you want to do with your life?
If you want to bleed away, isn't that your life you're destroying? Why should anyone give a fuck about it?
Society dictates decisions. You don't have to agree with those decisions.
You can take control of your destiny.
Kill yourself before you suffocate from the demands, before you buckle under from the pressures of the world.
Cut yourself free… take control.
Take control.
four
I don't want you to feel sorry for me.
There's no cause for you to feel sorry for me.
You say you want to help me… I don't need any of your help. I don't need anyone's help. I'm the one who's in control. When everyone's losing their heads, I'm not, I'm cool. I know how to handle things. I can't do anything wrong.
Nothing can hurt me.
I'm oblivious to the pain.
There's no need for you to feel sorry for me. I don't need your pity, dammit, don't you understand? I don't need you to pity me, I don't need you to gawk at me as if I'm doing something wrong.
I'm not doing anything wrong.
It's not that bad, y'know. Most people think that the idea of inflicting pain upon themselves is something gruesome, something that only insane people do. That's it's something wrong, so wrong.
It's not. This is how I deal with things, this is what helps me. Not the counseling, not those people talking at me and going on about the good things to look forward to.
There's nothing to look forward to. There is just nothing to look forward to, nothing to fall back on… except the pain.
I cut myself to know if I can still feel. It's the pain that makes me real, that makes me alive. If I couldn't feel the pain from the cuts, I'd be dead. I'd be worse than dead… numb.
Do you know what it is to be numb? To not be able to feel anything, to be so disconnected that all you can do is sit and watch and idly wonder about everything around you and why the hell is this happening? And still not be able to feel anything?
Numbness is the scariest thing that could happen.
It's also a comfort.
I cut myself to prove that I'm not numb. But sometimes, I wish that I would be. That I could scratch and watch the crimson and pale, and not feel anything. Not feel the dull pain, not feel the sting.
Do I still feel?
I don't know. Maybe. Maybe I passed into numbness sometime ago. I just cut myself because it's something familiar. Familiarity equals comfort. Because I say that I'm in control of what I do.
I think I am.
But I'm not sure. Am I really in control? Or am I just being compelled by something, too scared to go on but even more afraid to stop?
Damned if you do, damned if you don't. It's a no-win situation. You think you're in control of something…
But that passed a long time ago. I think it's getting out of control now.
I don't want you to feel sorry for me. I want you to help me. I'm just too proud to admit it. I want to think that I'm in control…
I want to. But I can't anymore. Because I can't feel anymore.
I think I've finally lost control.