Someone asked if this site was becoming the new cutter site. Gosh I hope not.
From a cutter's standpoint, That's not why I'm here. The fact that I am a cutter is not a reason to have a journal.
And for all those WANNABE cutters out there that think it is all cool, I can tell you that it is not. People die that way.
I started cutting at the age of about ten. They say it is a mental disorder but I am not a mental case and there is evidence some really famous, intelligent people are and were cutters.
But to keep this site clean from the scurge of cutter entries, I will stop there.
So............ nice day. There is sun here in Casper and that always makes things warm and fluffy.
I am extremely depressed today and I really don't know why. I feel like just being alone and I am realizing that this is Memorial Day weekend coming up and I will have to deal with three brothers and my mom all weekend. I shouldn't really say that because it's not that big of a deal but in the delicate state my brain is in, it could be.
Jerry and I could spend some time together but I also need to study for my last two finals. Maybe it's something in the water because my little brother came and jumped in bed with me last night. He used to do that a lot right after my dad passed away. I can always tell when he's feeling a little fragile, a chip right off his big brother's block apparently.
You can tell where he's at because I said, "hey what's up?"
"Nothing," he said. Then he buried his head against my chest.
You know, we've tried to talk and nothing ever comes out of him. Partly because I think he knows that I understand already and partly because he's like me, if you don't talk about it, it doesn't hurt.
Maybe I'm not the great example for him and the others that I think I am.
Jerry said, "would it really kill them if they found out they had a gay, cutter brother that is capable of tears occasionally?"
Jerry says that I never allow myself to fall backward and trust that someone would be there to catch me. Sure I do! I'D BE THERE TO CATCH ME.
It is a pain in the ass when you have to be your own support system even though you know if you could just allow someone else in, they'd be there for you.
Ever since I was a little kid I can remember my mom saying to different people, "He's so independent."
After a while people start expecting you to be independent and stop offering support. Then some genes and hormones and blood plasma kicks in and you realize you have alienated yourself from everyone, at least for the purpose of support. You're still thought of as the "good son" but you always hear "leave him alone, he'll be fine."
I think the last time I went crying to my mom was when I was about three and smashed my finger in the garage door. After Chucky came along, he did enough crying for the both of us in his first year of life on earth. They finally figured out that he was lactose intolerant.
By the time the other boys came along I was well on my way to being "big brother" able to leap tall buildings at a single bound.
So here I am, a teen now with a strong desire at tmes to suck my thumb and hold my blanky, (or cut) and my friends call me spiderman ( because of my tall stature not because I shoot webbing from hidden apendages). Somehow it has stuck and even Jerry calls me Spidy.
I admit this is all self-inflicted. One whimper and my mother would come running and stand in my general area ready to administer first aid, but not without my OK first.
"I'm fine don't touch me. It's just a broken leg and a skull fracture."
Jerry says I still hold some parts of my innerself outside his reach. I am sure I do, but Jerry is the first person in a long time that has started to crack the shell that guards the soft underbelly of Spiderman, but its like giving up the golden rings. If you patronize me too much, I'll close the door and lock it.
It all started like this..........
I remember now, I was 9 years old and I fell off the swing and the damned metal thing came back and nailed me in the forehead giving me this nice little scar that you can see here. Mom and dad rushed to my side to find me bleeding like a stuck pig but of course not crying.
Mom started making cooing noises like a mother pigeon and of course that started the tears.
Her words to my dad were,"Honey we have to get him to the hospital for stitches. Damon never cries and if he's crying it must be really bad."
I think it was the word "stitches" that got my attention. I dried up the tears in a big hurry and claimed that I had sand in my eye.
This my motto: "Smile at all assaults to the human heart and body except at funerals and then smile when necessary." Sounds like something Mark Twain would say, doesn't it.