tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-47267414109586161902024-03-08T02:58:38.371-08:00YOUR LIFE HONESTLY AFTER...SHARE YOUR STORIESAMB http://www.blogger.com/profile/09702860855622522870noreply@blogger.comBlogger3125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4726741410958616190.post-59946530367487009622012-10-23T11:29:00.000-07:002012-10-23T11:29:10.788-07:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong><span style="font-size: x-large;">THE CUTTER</span></strong></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I
was 16 when I started carving hate words into my flesh. So glad I wised up. The
inner hate I harvested caused physical wounds, the pain real and deep as the
ocean. I reveled in the pain. I enjoyed it. The pain seemed to make the scabs
of a torn soul disappear...</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I
put the on my long sleeve shirts to cover the wounds and a smile on my face, as
if everything was ok. I hid my dark secrets. I hid from mirrors. The mirrors only
reflected truth. I could see demons playing in my hair, when I peaked in the
mirror to wash my face. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Outbreaks
were sporadic. I was set off by certain memories, rejection, or if my feelings
were hurt. Often times when I was angry I’d put holes in the wall by socking
them or kicking at them. My tantrums turned into somewhat of a teen opera. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I
was experiencing emotions I couldn’t explain. I hated my surroundings and my
façade at school was becoming a task to up hold. The troubles of youth trying
to fit in, and the pressure of potential social demise could drive a person
mad. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The
words etched in my skin were always the same. “I HATE YOU,” In all caps,
underlined twice for effect. It burned as I drove the hot safety pin across my
flesh. Continually, I dragged the pointed carver into my skin frantically and deviously
as blood oozed from my pores. My rage was soothed as the warm blood began to
pour from my arms. Like a vampire to blood. It was a high I couldn’t explain.
Watching the blood and the skin break made me feel as if the problems were
solving themselves. I couldn’t remember the reason for my tantrum much after
because my thoughts were clouded with the pain of my cutting experience. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The
bandage was soaked with blood. I had to be sure to change it often. I was
fearful of anyone finding out of my self-mutilation. People of color tend to
think that this type of behavior is limited to other races. We may have
different cultural traditions and there are in fact ways in which other
cultures and races deal with stress and the like. However, we have since crossed
race lines, that we would have never expected to share. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">So
for those readers confused as to where this is going, the cutter isn’t a white
thing. It has no color. Self-mutilation is a cry for help. I didn’t know how to
expressively speak to my loved ones about my feelings or insecurities because those
types of things weren’t discussed openly in our family. The communication
barrier had yet to be broken. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The
cutting became a ritual. It was my coping mechanism. I began using my feet as
the place for pain. I would pick at the toe nail digging deep under the nail,
claiming to have an ingrown toe nail. I’d make sure to take Tylenol so that I
could make it through my operation. Picking at the scab gave me peace reliving
the pain and watching the pus to reveal that it had indeed become infected. It
hurt like hell to walk. The pain was like a hurt me, hurt me feel good
sensation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Sometimes
as I walked, I’d put pressure down on the toes I’d operated on to ensure that I
could feel pain, or make the infection ooze so that I could later pick at the
scab. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Disturbing
I know, and it wasn’t until my late 20’s that this ritual was put to rest.
Discussions with medical professionals didn’t help the sore subject of self-esteem
and body image. I was harboring secrets of torment during my childhood, which
later grew to haunt my abilities to form healthy adult relationships. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">You
see, how the development of the child psyche can affect the brain and its
development. Our very developmental processes and environments in which we live
and grow effect our learning and ability’s to cope with stress. Even, just the
day to day struggles. I don’t need a psychology doctorate or medical book to
convey this message to you because it is something I have learned through
experience. Though my educational background is in psychology, I only took on
the major of the mind to understand my own. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">You
know you can’t keep ignoring your feelings. Feelings of anger can foster into
rage and develop into plans of premeditated crimes of passion. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I
vowed to myself that I would never pick up a sharp object, with the intent to
carve words into my skin. I vowed this same oath to myself. I took up writing
again as my release. I drew for the first time in 3 years. My father had
passed. My love for the arts died along with him. My art work was lost in
storage that I didn’t bother to retrieve. I had lost all use of it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Today,
I find joy in many of my suppressed talents. I opened my heart to the world by
letting out the demons I hid in my closet so that I could heal. You know when
you make an issue public that is the first step to healing and letting go. It’s
when you hold it in that you give room for continued practice of these
unhealthy behaviors. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Many
of us are afraid to reveal our inner most feared secrets because we are afraid
that we will be judged. Well you will. People judge you whether it’s a headline
or subtext. The cutter in me threatens to peak and rain havoc on my soul. I
have to look at my children’s faces and I begin to pray immediately. It’s a
sickness, an addiction. An addiction can take many shapes and forms. My name is
Aija and I am a cutter, and I am addicted to pain, pain in which suppress’, the
emotions of my mental state of mind. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">My
cure to this pain is journaling. In this journal is my diary. This is the way I
can at least release my emotions and learn to let go, a healthy reaction to
anger and fear. I am indeed born again. Taking this recovery thing one day at a
time, one of many recovering faults I enlist. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
AMB http://www.blogger.com/profile/09702860855622522870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4726741410958616190.post-41581560198703915172012-10-23T10:43:00.004-07:002012-10-23T10:43:51.401-07:00<div style="text-align: center;">
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<o:p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;"><strong><u>SICK AGAIN</u></strong></span></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;">Sick
again, I couldn‘t believe it. I fell over in my chair defeated and ready to
throw in the towel. I slumped and melted as if the bones in my body had disintegrated.
I thought that the worse was over. I never imagined for one second that what
doctors predicted would come true. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;">Before
I could hit the ground, I was rescued by a nurse assistant on duty and asked to
change into a gown. I refused of course. I didn’t trust the medical facility
and challenged the test results, they so eagerly read as if it were good news.
I rolled my eyes with the last bit of energy I had before my complete
breakdown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;">“What
would be the point of completing my current tasks?” I implied. The nurse was
more than confused. You could see her fingers itching over to the panic button.
Still, she smiled and said that she wasn’t at liberty to speak on the matter. I
found that quite cowardice. She was so anxious to read the news of my lab results.
It was as if she got off on telling patients they had days to live. If I could
reach the scalpel on the supply table I would have cut her throat. The sound of
her guzzling blood over powered her speech in my mind. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;">I
contemplated about the walk home. I had driven but; I thought it would be
fitting to take a stroll. It had seemed like such a long haul to overcome my
first bout with illness. I just didn’t think I could make it through a second
time. I stayed for the poking and prodding, the excessive lab work that could
only reveal one thing. I was set-up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What was the point of chemo therapy? I was no stranger to walks with
death, but what was the point of fighting the inevitable? It had come back with
a vengeance, knocking down my walls of confidence and security.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;">I
looked up at the strange woman and refused any help. She was forcing me into a
gown along with one of her team. She couldn’t handle me on her own. Her
presence sickened me. I couldn’t wait to get a moment alone with her. I believe
they altered the test results, by the many vigilantes against survival and
perseverance. They were apart the of devils advocates I’m sure. I could smell
them from a mile away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;">I
was caught off guard. I was so angry I stood in the middle of the hospital
garden and screamed for God and his son to show face. I drifted into biblical
times. The grass became sand, my feet were bare, and the sun was hot. My hands
were swelling and callusing as the sun burned them. I held them high towards
the sky waiting for God to tell me what was going on. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;">Screaming
at the top of my lungs drew much attention. They saw me standing in a hospital
gown raising my hands to the sky, speaking in some odd language. I saw no one
just the sun beaming down upon me as I glared in the bright lights that soon
blinded me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;">It
was going to be a very long walk home. I was so taken back by the news. I
forget where I lived. I left my car in the parking lot and started on my
journey home. I didn’t have a care in the world. I walked along side cars on the
highway. The breeze flowing in from my open back gown gave me, just enough of a
cooling to beat the exhausting heat. I was one with the earth and beginning to
accept my fate. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;">In
reality I believe at this point the nursing staff retrieved me from the outside
courtyard just in front of the hospitals entrance, and bused me back to my
room. I say shades of gray. I couldn’t understand nor could I explain the
happenings occurring in my mind. All I could see was darkness. It was sure to
be a long walk home. A long walk back to civilization, I couldn’t think. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;">The
nurse was just behind the curtain pushing in the machines. She was back to take
my vitals. I couldn’t believe they were trying to admit me based on a
technicality. I was sick in the head. My physical frame was as well as it was
going to get. If I were going to take the walk down these long halls to
isolation then it was no point in even admitting me. I wasn’t going to stand
for it, not again. I did my time. I paid my dues. I‘d learned my lesson. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;">I’d
survived the long walk home once before. I couldn’t see the need for my
revisiting the long endless roads of humility. Fading into sleep as the nurse
punctures my flesh, I remember only the smell of the cool air and the clouds in
the sky. They were in the shape of fluffy kernels of popcorn. A treat I rarely
ate unless at the movies, but one I all of sudden craved. It was going to be a
long walk home, and I had yet to be granted the right and privilege to do so. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
AMB http://www.blogger.com/profile/09702860855622522870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4726741410958616190.post-28383087730664189732012-10-23T10:42:00.000-07:002012-10-23T10:42:36.572-07:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: x-large;"><u>THE FINE PRINT</u></span></strong></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></o:p> </div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">You
ever suffer from an illness or discomfort of some sort and this remarkable
commercial comes on that says, “Tired of feeling depressed, tired of just
sitting around your home working the same dead-end job?” Or how about, “The
cure is here. No more aches and pains…” You get up from your slump and scoot to
the edge of your seat with all the excitement you can muster, and as you exhale
you hear a man mumbling gibberish incoherently about the side-effects to the
drugs or activity. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The
sulking continues, who wants to risk the possibility of death due to side
effects of the drug, rather than the symptoms? Life is much the same. When we are
born we grow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Then
we come of age, and our rebellious natures choose paths both good and bad.
However as we humans plan for our goals to become a reality, rarely do we
consider the fine print. The fine-prints I speak of are the many snags, trials,
and tribulations that come along with this life journey. We want to be
successful, we want to feel loved, and we naturally well into our adult lives
would like the approval of both our peers and parents. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Sadly,
life happens, things don’t always come in order, and the fine-print on labels
are often overlooked. So what’s the stitch? What do we do with the life after
moments that leave our mouths wide open with shock and dismay? Do we perhaps
just throw in the towel and say better luck next time? Or do we stand and take
our lives back, noting the mishap, and beginning anew. I don’t down the
fine-print. I embrace it. It causes me to pay attention to my goals, my dreams,
my peers, and even my family. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The
fine-print is a simple cautionary warning. Think of it as a wet floor sign
right before you enter into a public restroom. You wouldn’t just scurry in full
speed, unless you happened to disregard the sign. Take a pilot for instance,
there is a long list of to do’s before you are cleared to take off. You read,
you study, you train, and then you soar. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">This
is what my life after honestly means. It is about all those leaps of faith we
take, and those experience we encounter along the way. We are not always
informed of the possible set-backs we may or may not endure. But this is the
sole purpose of this memoir I share my quirky short stories about my illness,
my recovery, loss of sensibility and my fight to achieve what many said I
couldn’t. After all 10 years ago doctors called my time of death 11/22/02 at
2:30am. What can I say there was a change in plans, God’s plan. I am living
proof. There is a life after. “Clear we have a pulse…”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
AMB http://www.blogger.com/profile/09702860855622522870noreply@blogger.com0