I am slowly slipping beyond my own understanding. Irony is lost on me. I’ve broken my self-harm contract again. All week the voices were chanting that I should destroy myself completely. That I deserve to die. I resisted, and resisted, and resisted. Until strength was gone and I didn’t. And it felt good, and it still feels good to know that my arms are not whole. I don’t deserve to be whole.
I think it was the care that did it this time. The care shown me by physios and consultants as I attended the next Botox appointment for my right knee. The care in their faces as I removed the AFO (leg splint) to bleeding heel from walking in; as I described the tripping and falling, the problems since the last round of treatment wore off. Care, as they examined my foot, listed the areas that were tender, and worse. And the care it took four people to hold my limb in position, to warn, to inject, to make sure I was okay to leave. And to make sure that I got the AFO repaired. I didn’t deserve that.
Physio this time, wasn’t like that when I was a child. Then, it was about whether I could hand write (are you sure? Yes – see. Oh). It was about praise for improvement made as a result of doing exercises, that I hadn’t actually done since the last visit. It was about guilt and putting up with pain. Not making a fuss. And laughter and teasing when a selection of my classmates joined in the physio visits at school. I was discharged when I was ten.
Physically, these physio trips have caused, and left me in more pain than when I was a child. Yet, they have shown me more care than any other.
Still my mind chants that the care is underserved. That I should have worked harder at physio when I was a child, even though my parents gave up on it early. That if I hadn’t worn the AFO, or had gotten it repaired ( in spite of not knowing that was possible) my foot would be in a better state.
My mind turns to the TC. More underserved care from a staff member after I left a group in abject distress. Don’t pull your hair, sweetie. Real care, I think. Not professional care. Real concern, like the physios were showing.
And I write this as much to reflect as to remember. Because feeling genuinely, intimately, cared for feels weird. And it is rare. And that glimmer of feeling cared for, that I know I have experienced and lost to mind before, is already slipping through my memory in a sea of undeservingness.
Whether I deserve it or not, it was given. It is a gift – a God-given gift. I want to cling to that, in spite of my desire to rip myself to shreds. Cling to the feeling, alongside the knowledge, that God wants me to be cared for. God cares for me. That is a weird feeling.