Not the Best of Weeks

[Content Warning added 20Jan2014 for thoughts of self-harm.]

I haven’t had any stickers on my calendar for over a week now. I’ve only had one so far this month. One lonely sticker on the second of April, followed by a very long stretch of blankness. Most of those blank spaces should in fact have big nasty black crosses on them, on account of actual mirror time rather than just non-visual fiddling. But I don’t draw those crosses on until I’ve earned another sticker to follow them up with – it’s just too depressing to look at otherwise, and I’ll only end up feeling even more discouraged than I already do.

I don’t know what the hell happened. It was a bit on-and-off for the last half of March, after I fell off my sixteen-sticker straight. I figured I’d get back into it again at the start of April – new month, clean sheet on the calendar, no discouraging misses to look at. But the first day in April was a miss. The second was a hit… and then, miss X X X X X X miss.

Where does willpower come from? Why is it that sometimes it is right there, keeping me strong, and then at other times I just can’t find any resolve anywhere? This last week I’ve woken up every morning promising myself that I’ll be good, but even as I make that promise I know it’s a lie. And sure enough, ten minutes later, I’m trancing out in front of the mirror. How can I make myself mean it, when I promise myself not to pick? Why does something which IS my choice, feel so much like something that happens to me which I have no control over? I can screw up my eyes and make fervent promises to myself until kingdom come – why is it that sometimes they feel real, and other times I just can’t make them seem solid in my head, even as I’m saying them?

I thought about going back to cutting. But I don’t think I’m going to do that again. For one thing, warmer weather is coming now and I don’t want to be stuck in long sleeves. I also don’t want to take a jumper off without thinking and then suddenly, say, my mother, erupts into screaming hysterics at the sight of my mutilated skin. And then I keep thinking of Kelvin saying, “You do realise that’s really stupid, don’t you?” Yes. Yes, I do. I don’t really want to go back to it.

One thing that has really pleased me, though, is that my freckles are coming back. I had a bit of a mirror-fest a couple of nights ago, but as my skin has gotten a lot clearer lately, there wasn’t a whole lot to mess with, so I didn’t do much damage – and my other calendar-crosses were for quick-picks at the spot which was annoying me most at the time. So, although I have some scabby marks right now, my complexion as a whole is much improved – the pink hyperpigmentation is beginning to recede, and my freckles are coming back, just under my eyes and below my hairline. They should be sprinkled right across my forehead and cheeks, if photographs of me as a child are anything to go by, but it’ll be a long time – months, maybe years, I should imagine – before they’re back in full force.

Talking of photos of me when I was ickle, I was looking through the family album this weekend and I made a couple of little discoveries. The first was a picture of me when I was a babe-in-arms, probably six months old or less. I had a little scab on my left cheek. Even as a tiny baby, I was scratching at myself! I knew it had been a habit for as long as I could remember, but to see that I had been doing it at such a young age was a bit of a shock. But secondly, I found a school photo of myself when I was about seven. It was a summer picture, I was wearing my blue chequered school dress and my grinning face was plastered in freckles – and not one red mark. It is, quite literally, THE ONLY school (or even nursery!) photo of me with a clear complexion. In every single one of the others, I have a scabby mark somewhere on my face. But this one – beautiful. I’ve brought it home with me to stick on my bedroom wall, as something of a goal to aim for I guess. I want those freckles back.

I miss Polly. I want to tell her about all of this, so much, because I think she is possibly the one person who might take me seriously, and believe that it isn’t as easy for me as ‘just stop’. I could really do with talking to her. But she is about to start her final term of uni, and she doesn’t have time for cross-country visits. I don’t really want to talk about this over the phone or MSN. And the other thing is – I sort of want to surprise her. It’s a really motivating idea to think of getting off the train and hugging her and hearing her say, “Oh my god, Tee, what happened to your face? You look really well!” I practically hug myself with anticipation every time I think of it. And I have got to make it happen if it bloody well kills me.

clever girl, way to go; zero stickers in a row