journey not recovery

I have been in a lot of treatment and met many people who got the help and attention, intervention, early on. I am not one of those people, though I needed that help desperately. My mother describes me as a very young child to be outgoing and bubbly, scaring away other children in the playground with my overwhelming friendliness. I was afraid of nothing. But by the age of 5 there was a split in who I was. That happy child morphed into a sad, depressed little girl. I shut down completely, lost my voice and rarely spoke. My kindergarten teacher commented to my mother that she was concerned I never smiled. My third grade teacher also expressed concern. My mother's response? "That's just how Caitlin is." I would cry at night and not have the words for what was wrong and she just would get frustrated. I was wordless. The Unsayable had me destroyed. But that's not who I was originally. My trauma changed who I was. It altered the person I was supposed to be, suicidal tho

My cuts are open-mouthed sirens singing high-pitched help psalms. If you looked you would know. If you saw I wouldn't have to tell. My parents saw it as a suicide attempt that first trip for stitches. Then they never spoke of it again. The day after no one would speak to me at all as if I had sinned against them. Each wound is a different cry, a different voice. Each is as significant as the next one and the one before it. Each one is silenced and shrouded in gauze and bandages and often never spoken of to anyone. If I slice my skin in silence is my skin even really split? If no one sees it where is the proof it took place? Sometimes I want someone to take care of them but when I do I downplay it, I am calm and smiling "this is not the worst." 17 years and I started at 17. The damage has been done, the stitches aren't cosmetic. My case worker doesn't ask about my cutting anymore, it is as predictable as the seasons. But no one sees it happen for real on the bathro

Birthdays have been hard won. Is "won" the right word when it has been a battle but not a victory? I didn't try for this.  Every year I'm here feels like a shameful failure, honestly. I value the love I receive and others' care but I would really rather not still be here. It's a reminder I have failed my suicide efforts, reminds of the crushing despair of coming to in another ICU bed, or the taste of charcoal in my throat, the tangle of wires and monitors, stitches and hospitalizations. Survival is a lie. It doesn't show the death I feel in my soul and it does not do justice to the pain and trauma I have endured. I was killed off early on, something essential stolen from me. Who I was supposed to be forever altered and destroyed. I am a ghost girl wandering hospital halls and emergency rooms. I am a scarred spector searching, self destructing to try to fill the sinking emptiness that consumes me, the longing that will never be filled. Black hole never whol