I'm glad I didn't die before I met you.

Dear my blog,

Tomorrow Ethan and I (most likely) get the keys to our new (old) humble abode. It is technically a duplex, however Ethan said I could call it a "flat". It has all hardwood flooring, a huge kitchen, a baby back porch, its ACROSS THE STREET from the planetarium, and most importantly, my own sewing room. I am glowing with happiness.

New news is good news.

XO,
Shine.

Talking To Tumblr.

"…I needed to kill something in me, this awful feeling like worms tunneling along my nerves. So when I discovered the razor blade, cutting, if you’ll believe me, was my gesture of hope. … All the chaos, the sound and fury, the uncertainty and confusion and despair—all of it evaporated in an instant, and I was for that moment grounded, coherent, whole. Here is the irreducible self. I drew the line in the sand, marked my body as mine, its flesh and its blood under my command." –ditto

I have a tumblr and use it often, and often times find other tumblr users posting pictures of self-mutilation, those of which I can hardly bear to stomach. I have seen photos of blood, wounds, scars, scabs; the entire outline of mutilating habits.

Why flaunt it? Cutting yourself and taking a picture of the blood running down your arm? Or taking a picture of the fact that you scratched your scabs last night and now your bleeding again? I am brought to tears thinking about every teenager sitting in their room, carving into their flesh, taking the photo, and doing their best to advertise their work. This is why self-injury has such a bad stigma attached to it; you make it look as though you are doing it for attention. You are the reason why parents are not taking their children seriously. You are the reason why children are being made fun of for being said, depressed, and introverted. You are the reason why something so habitually serious has become a giant joke. You are the reason why I have had

to hear:

"No wonder why everybody hates you. Go cut yourself."

I can't help but feel territorial about the entire act. You're taking my demons and making a mockery of them. How fair is that? I wish you would stop. I wish if you were serious about injuring yourself, you could do anything but flaunt it. It's not my place to say whether or not you are serious, or whether or not you are doing it to catch sympathy or cool points, but it's ruining it for the rest of us. It's ruining it for us who don't know how else to cope, but would like to find a way. You are not a martyr. You are not helping. You are the definition of anti-help.

WILL MY HEART TEETER, TATTER?
I'M A BELIEVER. I'M SOLID MATTER.

"Child, I Love You Regardless."

My little sister made this for me when I was in High School. It was around the first few times I discovered how low I could get, how close to the ground I'd want to be. I was 16 or 17, which would have made her 6 or 7 years old at the time. I had been in bed for 3 days, only really unlocking and opening my door to use the bathroom or brush my teeth. I remember hearing her knock on the door and asking her to go away, only to find a few hours later when I made a trip to the bathroom, this had been slipped under my door. I immediately felt guilty and grateful at the same time. Grateful that I had a family tolerating every action I made to avoid the forward movement of being alive at 17, but guilty that I had a little sister too smart to fool that I was "just tired".

I think too often, as humans, we lose sight of the influence we have on others and let the selfishness of our own suffering effect our tolerance with those who are able to wake up without wanting to go back to sleep. Until I was given this drawing, I had blocked out the fact that others could see what was happening. I had my father handing me one hundred dollars a week to talk to a stranger for an hour, while my mother was cooking for three instead of four. It was comforting to know that when I finally woke up, and got dressed, and turned the lights back on, I had more than one pair of open arms to welcome me home.

And this, this idea of others watching and others standing near no matter what, has finally hit me, and I can no longer depend on the option of deciding when I do or do not die. I've come so close to suicide too many times to count, and the fact that I have never followed through was always because I thought I "wasn't ready", never knowing because subconciously, I could never do it to those who have stuck around this long.

My little sister is 12 now, and the other day while I was applying blush along the lines of her cheekbones, she grabbed my left wrist, only to find day old wounds. I quickly tore my wrist away and tried to change the subject, like I do every time a new set of eyes focuses on that one section of pale skin scarred and sometimes fresh, but she didn't need answers. She simply wrapped each arm around my neck and we sat there for a few seconds. It was a confirmation between the both of us that I will not leave, but sometimes I can't help but hurt, and from the very beginning, from the time that the picture above was drawn, she has continued to love me without judgment. The fact that someone with so few years of life experience behind their belt can give a sense of hope and wellness is a miracle. And, in my case, lifesaving.

BASED ON FICTIONAL EVENTS.

THIS TOO SHALL PASS.
THIS TOO SHALL PASS.
THIS TOO SHALL PASS.
THIS TOO SHALL PASS.
THIS TOO SHALL PASS.

Ode to Sylvia.

Sleeping is rough when you don't want to wake up,
and you dont try to shout when you can't seem to talk.
If you're not walking, you're not running,
you're not seeing, you're not feeling.
Laying down, drained and defeated,
bones aching while keeping cold.

But all the hurt gets better when we're laying here together.
I don't want to die when your body fits to mine.
And I don't think of suicide when you and I are side by side.
All the hurt gets better when we're laying here together.

You don't feel like drinking when you can't seem to pour,
And don't think about the chance of eating because your stomach is on the floor.
If you're not reading, you're not writing,
you're not feuding, you're not fighting.
Your white flag is waving violently in the wide eye of the storm.

But all the hurt gets better when we're laying here together.
I don't want to die when your body fits to mine.
And I don't think of suicide when you and I are side by side.
All the hurt gets better when we're laying here together.

I won't eat those pills as long as we can keep our thrills.
I'll keep the engine cool if it means you won't look back.
I won't walk infront of a train, I'll keep my hairdryer out of the rain.
I promise to keep my head out of the oven if it means I get all of your lovin'.
And I don't think of suicide when you and I are side by side.
Because all the hurt gets better when we're lying here together.


Fuck everything.
Love,
Shine.

Are you firing me?

What happens when hardest isn't hard enough? What happens when your best isn't the best you could be doing? "I think it's time to move on", she says. "This is in your best interest", she says. "I want you to leave on good terms", she says.

So you sit there, hunched over, with your arms over your head like you're taking part in an earthquake drill; because if you could crawl under her desk, you would. Anything to protect yourself from humiliation and rejection.

And every minute you spend trying to perfect the line of liquid eye liner on your top eye lid has been wasted, the once flawless cat eye effect is now streaming down your face in two almost perfect vertical lines. Perfect makeup, perfect outfit, perfect way of styling your Betty Paige bangs, and all you have to show for it is a final check and a lecture on "one hundred and ten percent", when really, you had been giving one hundred and twenty the entire time. One hundred and ten is for someone who hates their job or who just needs the money, or who wouldn't think twice about taking a bullet for a position that pays minimum wage. Those who consider themselves one hundred and ten know nothing about losing sleep over presser feet prices or being comfortable with unpaid overtime. They know nothing of picking up dog shit or keeping company secrets in order to keep the doors unlocked and the open sign brightly lit. "Fuck your one hundred and ten percent", you think. You weren't just a number.

Now, on this cold rainy day in February, you consider yourself to be once again, just a number, just another statistic. Just another part of the unemployed percentile. Your once expanding passion to make this business a better place and the willingness you carried to go above and beyond, well, both have fizzled.