#self-attack

[jacks-wack-attack]

Why does my body not like itself? I don’t appreciate looking in the mirror at 10pm to see my eye bloodshot because “I’m tired” like no. Body, brain knows you’re not tired. You’re nowhere near tired or sleep deprived even. Why must you do this?

It’s great when the eye continues to be red for a day and a half, as if the extra couple hours of sleep you gave yourself were poisonous.

[workwithgrace]

You should really be over this by now--is that actually true?

You should really be over this by now–is that actually true?

If you’ve had eating troubles of any kind, then your mind has likely said loudly to yourself:

“Really? You did this again? What’s WRONG with you? You should be OVER this by now!”

Let’s inquire into this thought today, with The Work of Byron Katie.

Is it true you should be over this “problem” by now?

Are you absolutely sure?

What I noticed over the many years I struggled with eating, food,…

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[miraculousunderstanding]

Who could render You vulnerable and hurt, lest you choose to hurt Your own Self? Lest you believe the assertion others make, they have no seeming effect...It is only through Your willing choice that You experience the pain of self-attack. It is not because of a power over you, not because of another. You do have a choice. You do have a say in whether You experience suffering. And it will not end until you agree that it has not even begun.

All is Forgiven: Jesus in his own words with Paul West

[cherry-ghoulaid]

Vermin.

With a leadened core I stumble and There is silence and too much space, though I suffocate.  The cavern encloses. I feel its dank, unforgiving walls Ripping into my face like a guard. I'm sorry I'm sorry please just listen. This stomach churns at my own detestable weakness. Listen.  Listen.  LISTEN! It's another voice to pretend to block out But I never can.  I hear you and me and them.  I remember Like a lightning-struck branch. I've become the slimy keeper of this cave.  Left to ponder Every snarl, every fear-laden bite that I bestowed With only the purest of instincts.  Now What am I? A parasite? An overexerted, over-aggravated animal, nothing but Claws and teeth and fury? The underfoot, sniveling worm? A master marionette puppeteer? A vengeful weasel? I don't know.  I feel you don't, either. Yet here we are. Forbidden, disenchanted, starving For any means of light. I hug these imprisoning, dirty walls, hope For warmth from within and Wrap my dead hands around my neck When there is none. I am a hair Brushed away from time's cheek and You are still nothing. Nothing. Noth i  n   g. Written 10/27/10, © Kar-Leigh Kelso  

[cherry-ghoulaid]

Sleeping savagery.

I am smothered. A knotted cord coils itself around my neck and drags me down. Down, down. Past bones the colour of moonlight, and the beetles and rats and earwigs that picked them clean. Down, down. Through the dirt and the filth and the decay to caverns where no warmth or light can seep through. My land of euphoria, of possibility: Nothing more than catacombs of old faces and gunshots and lost love and a hated gymnasium and sharks; torn away happiness and clawing for light and Slipping away. I can't punch through anything but molasses and can't live anything but lungs grown too close to my ribs and a pulse hammering to breaking point. I get cold.  So cold. I panic and hurtle straight into the waiting jaws of something so mindlessly horrific that I can never see it, but I feel it even in my waking hours. Written 05/06/09, © Kar-Leigh Kelso