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These are the painful words that cut my heart into a million different pieces, each of them shifting and moving in response to this residual, painful burning that I feel. I freeze in response to where these words take me. You know how revolutions seem to lead you in circles and you find you're in the same place as before, but this time it's a level higher? That's what it feels like. This evolution of mine has brought me to a place that feels the same as square one when I first starting changing things in my life, and yet it's nothing like before. This time I actually uttered those words, which I was afraid to say. I say it feels similar to before because that freezing response I talk of is similar to what I initially experienced, and yet it's like it comes from a different place which therefore makes it impart a different kind of feel. The scariest part about this pain of mine is that it's unlike any other I've experienced, so the unknown is scary. It's the terror of accepting myself, something of which I'm closer to than I've ever been in my entire life.
It seems that music will remain my refuge, a tool to self sooth and assuage my persisting feelings. Tycho's album Awake comes to mind, a powerfully ambient release that just lets me feel instead of overthink.
Woke up this morning to my mom calling down the stairs. She's having some sort of muscle spasm in her neck and needed me to go get some Aleve for her. I was still stoned from last night, god I still feel stoned even now.
Psych says I'm getting high because acid has entered my life. He says when I get that dose in the mail I'll get high just being around it. I don't know when I'll have a good time to try it, probably when my family's out of town.
Last night the room spun around me while I listened to a shoegaze band Wind sent me. B went to sleep early because he had to be up early this morning. Now I'm here still feeling stoned and trying to decide what to do with my day. I want to sleep more but my eyes won't stay closed. I could go to the park and smoke the rest of my weed but I mostly like smoking at night when there's little to no chance of my getting caught.
My mom's neck spasm makes it so that she can barely move and it reminds me of the emotional pain I've had lately. Feeling like I can't breathe because I hurt so bad. I'm tired of feeling that way. Drugs are as good a way as any to get rid of it.
So I got the shit beaten out of me the other day. A dominatrix friend and I had joked for quite awhile about her eventually getting a chance to have a go at me, and when an opportunity actually came up, we both shrugged and gave it a go.
I've realized that it's deceptive to call myself a masochist. I always thought that the term was appropriate, because I often willingly subject myself to all sorts of torture, but it's come to light that masochists are supposed to get an endorphin rush or sexual gratification from pain. I get neither. Pain just hurts. And in the case of the other night when I was getting caned and flogged, it hurts a lot. I don't get off on it, and I don't enjoy it.
But I'm going to go back to it again and again, because I don't want to be ruled by it. Towards the end, I started to realize that I might actually pass out, and my stomach started tensing up like I might vomit. Objectively, it's just pain. The injury is superficial and it would be in my best interest to train myself to be able to continue functioning in the face of overwhelming pain. I want to be able to say, "Okay, I'm going to stand here and take this", and not be contradicted by any knee-jerk reactions. I've committed part of my personal development to making sure that my actions are always decided by my rational, intelligent mind, and not my primitive, instinctive mind. And if that means getting the everliving shit beaten out of me until I can take it, then so be it.
When I was five, I taped my eyes open and stared at the sun for 10 minutes. Afterwards, I wandered around a bit satisfactorily pained and impaired by the floating spots cluttering my field of vision. I loved these temporary problems that made it more challenging for me to function. I viewed overcoming them as a necessary exercise to eventually overcome what I was hiding.
Maybe it's just that I get bored when I'm too happy and want to create a familiar atmosphere of discomfort for myself. The desire to cause physical pain to myself was spawned by my attempts to balance out mental and physical harm, I remember that. I felt weak for letting his words hurt me, so I carved pictures in hidden stretches of flesh, often upper thighs, where I could feel there was a balance and no one else would need to see or worry.