TRIGGER WARNING: POST CONTAINS TALKS OF SELF HARM.
Self-harm is just like writing. It’s an outlet for your emotions and after a while, an addiction. And then it takes time to find your niche.
I write whatever pops up in my head. Unfortunately, these cognitive juices flow only when I’m in the train heading back home where it’s too crowded for me to write properly; and tons of ideas go to waste.
But this time, I got the chance to type down these emotions as I was on the toilet. Nifty little play-out.
Now a recurring theme of my work, be it on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter or even WordPress posts, mostly deals with psychological hardships and their interrelation with the respective surrounding environment.
“To a lot of people who choose to overlook the facts and call it superficial, don’t be ignorant to the progressive society you live in. Part-take, learn and develop. This is your natural selection and your negative perspectives, that sometimes have loose bases, are not contributing towards the socially interconnected global unit, we are trying to achieve.”
Supplementing this is the abridged outcome of my high school experience.
A ton of students speak about the hardships undergone with their respective educational institutions. And who can blame them? While the rest of us millennials are trying our best to succeed at developing acceptance and harmonious living, there is the majority of them of revolt into becoming bullies. Straight up, troubled-childhood-experienced, bullies.
And who supports these trash-talkers? Their ignorant parents who vote in favor of “guiding their young”. Brilliant, good for you. (note: sarcasm).
This form of throwing around slurs and words of abomination leads to severe negative consequences bore by the bullied.
So where am I getting with this? Yes, self-harm. The outlet I resorted to when I was quietly but socially bullied.
And what happened after that? I started to realize that the nature of bullying stems from harsh treatments provided by their derogatory nurture. Hence, I started to decrease the frequency of piercing myself with a blade. And what’s my outlet now? You’re reading it.
I write when I’m sad. I’ve failed far too many times such that if I had ever let it get to me, I wouldn’t have a clean body or sound mind at this point.
I find myself highly (call it pretentious if you will) inspired at the intersection of the crossroads of failure and perceived failure. I now take out the pen instead of taking out the anger. And you know what? It feels exhilarating.