Pretty pretty please….

I’ve prayed for help.  I’ve asked God to make me strong, asked my spirit guides to show me the way.  I’ve beseeched the Universe to open her heart to me – to see me, and make me whole.  I’ve stood under countless full moons begging for guidance and release.
There’s not another human being on the planet more open to change and healing than me.

And yet – there never seems to be a reply.

Reminds me of this joke I heard years ago.

John, who was in financial difficulty, walked into a church and started to pray. ”Listen God,” John said. ”I know I haven’t been perfect but I really need to win the lottery. I don’t have a lot of money. Please help me out.” He left the church, a week went by, and he hadn’t won the lottery, so he walked into a synagogue. ”Come on, God,” he said. ”I really need this money. My mom needs surgery and I have bills to pay. Please let me win the lottery.” He left the synagogue, a week went by, and he didn’t win the lottery. So, he went to a mosque and started to pray again. ”You’re starting to disappoint me, God,” he said. ”I’ve prayed and prayed. If you just let me win the lottery, I’ll be a better person. I don’t have to win the jackpot, just enough to get me out of debt. I’ll give some to charity, even. Just let me win the lottery.” John thought this did it, so he got up and walked outside.
The clouds opened up and a booming voice said, ”John, buy a f*cking lottery ticket.”

You have to be willing to do the work.

I have to be willing to do the work, that’s what I’ve learnt.

I can ask for all the help in the galaxy.  I can ask someone else to show me the way, but the truth of the matter – the bare bones reality, is that the help I need is already here.

I have everything I need.

Right here.

I’m perfect.

Hold me, thrill me, kiss me, kill me.

Self harm is an interesting beast.  It bubbles up from nowhere parading itself as suicidal ideation, when in reality it is a sometimes more insidious beast.

Self harm wants us to strip down to our bones, to flay our skin, to twist and pinch and punch and slap.  It wants us to feel crazy, then sated by the sight of our own blood, our own pain.

It’s a thing we hide.  Shameful.  We wear long sleeves to cover our own bruises from loved ones, and remain silent when our hairdresser notices large clumps of our hair is missing – like it’s been pulled out.  It has been.  I did this.

We feel childish and half finished, because we can’t find the words, can’t make ourselves heard.  We can’t get through life like grownups do.  Instead we punish ourselves and cry for help in secret.

Judge me if you must, but see by my bruises, my cuts and blood, that I already judge myself more harshly than you ever could.

Self harm is a whisper.  Please help me.  Please hear me.  Please.