Aside from moon cycles of hormonal outbursts, which I assured my friend who immediately jumped to the question, I was completely sane. Hormone-wise at the least. Was it my bad direction sense that got to me? Or the dropping temperature? Both of which I should be well acquainted with by now. Coming out from the local animal clinic with a tiny slip of paper of directions drawn by the woman at the counter who, with all good intentions had wanted to help me, I walked out bitter and suddenly crying.


The meltdown progressed until I became noticeable enough for passing cars to drop me an either suspicious or worried look. Yeah who wouldn’t at the teenage girl who was probably either kicked out, or later on, higher than a kite – somberly laughing at herself while her ass froze on a bench.

What the hell are you doing Sarah I thought to myself.

I couldn’t say it was a particularly bad day. Apart from lousy team members in dance, but I half assly blame that on the aspect of a looming dance competition and the fact that some people, alike the rest of us, will always fall to, what I somewhat hope, to be unintentional fouls of hyprocritism.

I was suppose to have a meeting with a new counselor outside of my school today. Whilst waiting for the bus I brooded over whether or not to mention that which had trampled slightly on my mood scale. I even pondered to articulate the entire event a certain way so that I may not seem so determined to have been an accomplice and therefore just as at fault for vengefully slacking off in malicious jab for their obvious encouragement. But then I told myself it was better yet to show signs of hopeful maturity to just admit that you’re a bull; Head strong, and all the people who had told you previous weren’t just shits.

All the while in my sad little adventure, I had managed to complete a full circle on the bus loop, on different buses let me specify, back to my original starting point. Hell yeah it sucked, I desperately wished that none of my team mates would miraculously appear and think that I was further slacking off. I wasn’t. I had begun to tear up.

In all honestly, from all the things that I contemplate about, crying in a public area, especially for no decipherable reason isn’t my top to-do list. I remember reading a post a few nights earlier about a woman who went from one abusive relationship to the next, and although I had dropped a hearty comment, I in no way fully represented that, nor hardly believed my words on a daily basis. It’s like the pot calling the kettle black to assume this position. I even pitched her situation against myself, and strangely comforted myself with  conscious absurd logic that though I might tell my friends and convince myself that I crave nothing more than the casual fling, it is not that I think I only deserve so, but strictly of choice that I came about. Obviously. I could just imagine myself far off, criticizing someone and punching out some tough love for the next fool that dared say that to my face about themselves. How blind I had always thought them to be.

So instead of numbly standing by the bus stop alone, I tried to read the little map I had in my pocket. I hadn’t walked a full block when it was the first time that my breathing got haggard without being in a consoling room constructed for this purpose. I was choking on something, yet I wasn’t thinking of anything at all. And though the music from my ear buds muted the outside world, the sound of gasping air was distinctively audible.

Above the fact that I hated being a cry baby, it frustrated me to no end that I could not in the slightest way pin point why I was so upset. And after awhile, maybe it was in fact the cold evening began to come forth and lay its dull blankets, or the nudge of hunger, I fell back to irrationally determined thoughts. Rebellious. Not wanting to meet anybody my counselor recommended me to, neither wanting to open up to yet another person about myself and have them dissect it with a professional eye, nor wanting to continue on any longer.

Was it a child’s thought that I suddenly wanted to go home?

But the thoughts were nothing, and I do sincerely hope, of a child’s mind. Violently obscene as many of they soon veered off to. Back to the old ways of deliberate self harm. It has been awhile old friend.

Luckily, I managed to first, figure out which the hell way the streets works so the bus I catch isn’t in fact going further away from my home, and second to have caught it before my ticket expired from it’s delirious journey in which I spent the last hour the clinic was even open till. While finally walking home, I wondered to myself another rhetorical question. I had admitted sometime ago that the beginnings of self harm were for attention, born of an idiocy relationship. Trapping really, the signs of abusiveness in reciprocal fashion. But after almost a year separated, having hardly a soul who sees me in real life know, I wonder when the switch happened that it truly adopted the essence of an outlet.

Some days I look at myself and see them as hideous scars that I fear will last a life time. Other days they somehow take on the look of benign shadows. Hardly enough to fulfill a need for visible ugliness. Yet despite the yearn for this, I wish not for my family to know. Ever. The biggest condition that many counselors fail to make, and therefore our meetings in turn fail to continue. Just having imagined today, I knew that my sister would be immediately concerned, not even having the least despicable selfishness in wanting this, I wanted nothing of it. Perhaps my view is biased by certain unagreeable family members, or that they had all gathered in unappealing fashion to my supposed ‘aid’ when my father had passed away. But even if the world were to topple over and they all grew for the better over time, I almost arrogantly, do not want them to know.

People ask me whether I’m innately afraid that my mother will become angry again as she had been when I was young. Am I afraid? For the beating? Not quite, we’ve long established that hitting your kids with household weapons was illegal in Canada. Only rhythmic thuds of boot soles accompanied my walk home. And alas, the divine intervention of grocery shopping and money affairs that jerked me out of my inwards fantasy.

My mother is coming home on Valentines Day from her month long vacation in the East with her new friend. I have enough money to spare buying adequate food, yet somehow the immediate thought, or instinct, is that I’m starving. Or going to anyway, because there is hardly anything at home. Funny, I never meant for the irony to occur –  Starving for her attention? I’d seriously have to cruelly mock myself if so. Is it that simple? Or do I simply not wish to admit that I’m not a professional diagnosis of something dramatic to make the issue any more substantial. Is it for me or you.

No glorious epiphany occurred. I wonder to myself, are you truly doing this for attention?

What the hell are you doing Sarah, being a fucking traffic display.


The dissonance of this post. Yeah, action definitely speaks louder than words.