Still alive.

My new video on my YouTube channel. Please have a look. 

So I'm back...

Although I'm pretty sure that nobody will have missed my writing, I'm back. I've been away for a while, staying on a psychiatric ward for acutely mentally ill adolescents. It's a little odd- despite being someone who has always been able to express their experiences well, I find it almost impossible to talk or write in detail about the ward. I was there for nearly three months and although I met some of my best friends there, and it stopped me from killing myself, it was really horrible. These last few months have been utterly unbearable. Again, oddly, I'm lost for words. My blog is generally written with intent to provoke thought in the reader, or to encourage others, but I don't seem to be able to think of anything to say. All I can say is: I'm still alive, despite everything, despite all of my attempts to end my life. And if you're reading this then you, too, are alive. And that is something. Currently, you are winning the frantic battle that rages on in your body and mind. Even if your life is as you want it to be, it is still an achievement that you are alive. So well done. Keep going.

Sleeves.

While some people have tattoos covering every inch of their body, I have scars. On my arms, my thighs, my ankles, my calves, my chest, my breasts, my tummy, my feet. I hurt myself. I wish that it had never come to this. I wish that I could have said to myself all those months ago, 'Alice, put the blade down'. But I can't. It is done. And now I spend every day hiding what I am from others. For fear of hatred. For fear of being called attention seeking. For fear that someone will look at me think I am as disgusting as I feel. But being stuck in this skin is unbearable. How can I accept myself if I can't even be honest about who I am? I've got to the point where I just want to roll up my sleeves and say 'This is me. I am what I am. Accept it or piss off.' Because although it's not pretty, it's what I have made of myself. I have no idea who I am inside but I look at myself and I know what has happened. I'm sick of feeling this way. I'm sick of lying, of hiding, of cringing away from the body that I have marked. It's not the scars that I'm scared of showing, it's what they reveal. 

And the image that inspires me, though it's original intent is far from this: