Control

The cut is deep, but never deep enough for me

It doesn’t hurt enough to make me forget

One moment of relief is never long enough

To keep the voices in my head from stealing my peace

Oh, control

It’s time, time to let you go

Perfection has a price, but I cannot afford to live that life

It always ends the same; a fight I never win

Oh, control

It’s time, time to let you go

I’m letting go of the illusion

I’m letting go of the confusion

I can’t carry it another step

I close my eyes and take a breath

I’m letting go …

There were scars before my scars

Love written on the hands that hung the stars

Hope living in the blood that was spilled for me

"Control" by JJ Heller

On the radio the other day, someone articulated my thoughts and feelings so clearly 

in a way I have never been able to express previously.

To have so much pain inflicted on you, 

to feel so out of control, so much pressure, so many demands... 

"be perfect. don't you dare cry. don't you ever fail or even appear to falter. how dare you have a need. you don't matter. it's all on your shoulders. fix it. you're responsible for everything."

Self-injury is an attempt to take control of the pain - which is there anyway, 

so much that you go numb.

It's a reminder that you're human and still capable of feeling. 

It's a bizarre source of comfort and relief.

It was first an issue for me in high school when my mother went from beatings 

to demanding that everyone in the family ignore me. 

They acted like I didn't exist. For months. That became years.

One time I knew I had gone too far with the cutting and thought it was the end. 

My body got very cold. 

An angel I'd seen once as a young child appeared at the foot of my bed, 

holding on to the rail and watching over me.

I looked away and rolled onto my side. 

A second angel, also from the earlier childhood experience, stood next to the bed. 

Somehow it communicated to me that they were going to watch over me, 

that I was going to be fine, and I drifted off to sleep. 

When I woke up the next morning and pulled back the towels from my legs, 

I was astonished to see the rapid healing that had taken place. 

Only a very faint scar remains, though I should have many.

Going through postpartum depression, 

especially the judgmental reproaches and abandonment of many closest to me, 

triggered a relapse. 

It's been eight years and I have not conquered this twisted monster in my life yet.

But I'm actively trying, 

gently but firmly working with myself to process the pains and find comfort in God. 

I don't feel as ashamed or try so desperately to cover the evidence, 

though it's not so obvious. 

No one knows the twinges of pain I feel as I walk about my life, 

running, dancing, jumping through hoops,

my feet ravaged by this compulsion.

For the first time in a very long time, I am wearing really cute shoes, 

showing love to the area that has suffered so much. 

A physical representation of a deeper healing taking place.