Hell is not Romantic
**trigger warning: suicide, self harm**
I can speak unflinchingly of belts around my neck and knives in my skin and the gulp of turpentine that turned my skin blue. I smile a fucked up smile to myself when I think about the times I’ve said goodbye and the times I’ve calmly put on clean clothes, destroyed journals, and prepared the scene of my departure. The most traumatizing scene a loved one would ever see, despite my efforts to lessen the gore.
It’s not because I am strong, that I can share those things. It’s because I am twisted and confused, and the monsters I am hiding are much more complex, and far less romantic, than the horrors I share with the world.
I am afraid of life. I am much more familiar and comfortable with death. I don’t know who I am, but I know my experience. I am afraid of feeling love. I am intoxicated by heartbreak. I have loved the insensitive men who have looked past the instability inscribed on my skin and thrust their own loneliness into my self-tortured body. I do not know what I’m avoiding. It can not hold the power of the pain I’ve created for myself, and anyone brave enough to love me.
It is easy to glorify the pain. I seek validation - a 24k gold prison tattoo that says “I survived”. A glorified survival is not enough. I am reborn, as I grind away the thin layer of pyrite-inscribed skin, slather on a thick coat of Earth’s healing balm, and begin anew.
I am a 21 year old recovering artist. With the loving community and practice of Life in 10 Minutes, I am reviving my passion for writing, and finding the courage to share my inner voice.