Disgust

I’m terrified of blogging again. I’m terrified. I’m terrified. I’m terrified.

Ben Folds says three times is poetry.

Disgust. That is what I keep feeling. It’s overwhelming. I feel it crash like disgusting seaweed waves, the tides going in and out with the moon, slippery and green. I can’t quite nail it down, it’s too much in one instance, it’s too hard in another, it’s too scary, it’s too weird.

I think my body doesn’t know how to deal with it. I have been pretty intentionally tearing off larger pieces of my skin. Whenever I feel a wave cresting up to break I compulsively begin to tear pieces off to make me bleed. It could be because I feel the pain of it and the feel of my own blood brings me back to the present. It could be that I’m a monster who wants all of my skin to be scar tissue and all of my nerves to be muted and all of my self to be protected.

My clan of people are people. They aren’t perfect. I’m not perfect. You’d think I’d fit in here. I know that if I could just accept the imperfect me then other people would be able to accept me too. But I feel such DISGUST for me. I can’t muscle it into a different feeling. I can’t just decide, okay NOW we’re going to love ourselves, ready? Go!

All of my sores are itchy, red, painful reminders that my body is f*cked up. That I’m different and scary to other people who see them. That I have no self-control or self-regulating. That it’s hopeless to try to change because these sores will take forever to heal. It’s never enough to just stop bad behaviors for a moment. Can you sustain that pause forever?