Blog entry title I can't really think of a name for #1

 

I'm ready to talk about it 

Nothing I wear seems to fit me properly. Every piece of clothing clungs to my skin and makes me hate the flesh carcass I live in. I want nothing else but to crawl into my skin and explode into tiny pieces just so I make the ringing sound in my head holt for just a moment and make my hands stop scraping at every untouched portions that are not yet raw and flaming, but my hinges are kept in place in favor of functioning amongst everybody else.

It's not like I need special clothes or anything. I'm not particularly fat nor skinny, and I'm not shaped 'weird' (how some people feel about themselves). I guess it's not the shape I'm opposed to, it's the feeling that I can never get rid of no matter what I do.   

Every day I'm forced to wear something, like a normal human of course. I'm not some nudist - that would actually be a reassurence for me - but fabric feels like it wasn't made for my skin. I would much prefer if being always naked was the way to go to for me, but I don't think that's doable in this day and age, and I'm also not too fond of showing everything for the world to see (take me on a date first and we'll talk more on that later *wink wink*).

I've tried everything: I went to many physicians since I was very little, I've been on numerous medication to alleviate my (nobody knows if it's physical or mental or both) pain. The earliest memory I can recollect with the fact that clothing materials bothered me is at only 4 years old.

I can specifically remember the feeling of the collar of my polo shirt digging into my neck, so tight like it was suffocating me, making me hyperventilate as if I was about to pass out. I started to scratch with my (then unkept) nails (full of sand from my playtime) until I bled profusely from my gashes. I don't know what I was thinking, but I can imagine the pain very vividly to this day. 

The sand underneath my nails very quickly turned bright red and I heard the screams of grown-ups. I didn't hear any footsteps, I was so focused in my self-harm that I wasn't paying attention to my surroundings. 

I don't know if my peculiar problem is innate or something triggered in me. Even if the latter is true, it wasn't something that happened out of something, I just know that I was fine just a second before and then I had the urge to take it off even if it meant ripping of my skin. 

You might be thinking just take the damn shirt off, right? I can't explain what took over me in that situation, but it was like everything went blank and I just had to make sure I did everything in my power to shred the top layer of my skin to make the sensation go away. 

The adults finding me like that reacted just how you might expect: shocked, but I was never punished or scolded. After the screaming stopped, I felt a heavy air of concern in the air, and they stared into the void thinking what to do next (after they took care of my wounds as much as they could). That was the first time I was taken to the hospital, and the 

I should say that I was living with my dad and his partner, whom I don't remember much about, just that she was always laughing and bringing me new things when she came by to spend time with my dad. We weren't rich nor poor, but I distinctly remember that my dad was stuck in a lower paying job, but it never really felt like it, with all the things I got from my then mother figure.

My dad had a very unlucky love life. My biological mother passed away shortly after I was born, and he was devastated, but one of the nurses at the hospital that aided her in her final moments stuck around and made sure we had everything we needed. For some, that gesture might look inappropriate: my mother died very recently and a nurse comes to me and my dad's place to help around?... So, yeah, they got together until I was 7 years old, when they separated because she cheated (that's what my dad told me once I was old enough to understand). I like to imagine she got together with an old guy from the hospital, it makes things funnier this way. 

Even with my limited understanding of things, I've seen how she helped dad to lift his spirits, so them breaking things off set him on the old path he walked on after my mother's tragic demise.  

I should - also - say that my dad is now remarried: his spouse is not really to my liking, not because she has a distinct backstory, but she never really known what to do about my problems. I always felt like my dad was both my father and my mother (in a stereotypical way) and the two people he had in his life that  were just treating me like a cute kid who likes to read and play videogames but who's also very broken and prone to hurting himself. I don't blame them, I can't think of what I would've done if I were in their place. Most likely because I can't control myself as it is, so I can't expect people to know how to help me if I don't have any means to help myself on my own. 

I hate when people call my dad pathetic for always having partners with higher income than his. I also think that is due to sexism and gender roles, but that's for people who know this stuff better to discuss about. He's a great guy, and I'm not saying this just because, I've never had any family problems because of how much he pays attention to me and the people he has in his life. Describing him as a ray of sunlight shining through thick fog would be an understatement. He's always been the kindest person I could ever imagine someone to be, and I'm very happy to have him as my dad. 

He works from home and he also takes care of all the chores, only getting helped when Helen (his wife) is at home. She works in construction, basically making the plans or something, I don't really get that stuff. She gets along with everybody at her workplace, even after she transitioned 10 years ago, but that might be because they can't really badmouth her after getting promoted to head of her department and working at the company for 20 years. My dad has never been judged for dating her, and I never had a problem with that, I was brought up to be an open-minded person. 

I guess I admire her, but from afar, I can't say I bonded with her on a closer level. My dad, and I guess her too, are very low-maintenance and are happy with only getting to see each-other 3 days a week. She is more than happy to contribute to the household earnings and take care of me (which means paying for my medication and therapy visits). 

I'm happy for my dad's recent career improvements: he's now working a flexible interior design job (I guess Helen builds the houses, and he furnishes and decorates them). He looks healthier and things are working out for him once and for all (I'm terrified of the memory of him sobbing quietly but intensely at his desk when he thought nobody saw him).

 

Hey, it's really weird that I didn't present myself. Maybe that last point will make sense once I lay out some information about myself.

I always call myself average: average intellect, average height, weight, looks. But just this time I'll say some things more positive to entertain y'all.

My name's Areel (my dad says it means 'Brave', but I don't know if it fits me ; wait I have to be positive! so moving on). I'm 18, and even if I said I'm not too upset about my looks, I guess objectively speaking I'm kinda lanky and nerdy (I'm surprised my glasses don't share the same burden as the other things I'm wearing, and they're pretty okay to the touch). I have this secret (wooooh!) which is this blog I'm writing on. Not that interesting, but something that makes the time go on. I enjoy reading (I usually ommit the fact that it's actually manga comics for the most part) and playing videogames. 

I hate everything that has to do with horror: it somehow awakens the feeling I get from my compulsions. I wish I could watch a movie or play a horror game without ripping all my skin off by the end of it, but oh well I guess I won't become a zombie in this lifetime (it was supposed to be funny, please laugh). 

I love making clay figurines: something about that substance calmes my nerves. It usually is the complete opposite for normal people: they get comforted by clothes (who likes being cold?) and hate the dampness and stickiness of something like that. I got this hobby from my grandma, she loved pottery when she was alive and taught me everything she knew. I can't really go that far to call it a passion; I don't want to do it in my every waking moment, I just like to do it when I feel like it (or feel 'inspired' to create).

I thought of saying something ironic like: I really into fashion and I'm really sad that I can only wear custom-made pieces made out of very breathable organic cotton, but I was never interested in anything trendy (I'm not sure if that stemmed from my affliction or not). From my hat and jacket, to my underwear and socks, I'm all covered in nature-friendly garments (which I'm not complaining about). 

I can't exactly pin-point if it's the material or just clothing in general (even after all these years living with this problematic life-crushing issue), I just know even the ones I'm wearing now are like spikes pinching my skin, but even I can tell it's certainly a little better than the ones from the past.  

After conspiring with my dad (one of his most devilish ideas; maybe the one and only; which differs from his 'do no wrong' persona) I had to lie my way out of the psych ward in order to get released. I wore a mask of 'everything is okay and I'm definitely not still hating how everything on my body feels' I promise, so trust me! 

I stayed there for 5 months, going in and out of sessions for diagnosis and treatment analysis and research and switching doctors all the time because nobody knew how to treat me. I won't go into the gruesome details for now, just know that it wasn't pleasant and they put me on a lot of sedatives to not scream and pierce my skin with my nails (they had professionals cut them short every time it was needed).

Everywhere I went I encountered the same puzzled looks on people's faces after knowing my situation, even at home, at the very first episode of frenzy full of rage directed towards myself and the skin I live in; and if doctors were left dumbfounded, I felt I was a lost cause.

My dad hated me being there, he only sent me after nothing else worked and he wanted me to get better on top of everything. He hugged me tons thinking something will happen to me and I'll come out of there affected by the (back then thought to be) cruel practices of the medical staff. I was one of the luckier ones because that nurse he was in a relationship at the time gave him a free pass to visit me all the time, as she knew someone at the institution. 

He tried to make things better for me, he brought toys and told me stories, even if I was conscious only for some of them. I felt his presence and he made me feel loved, and even if that stay was relatively short, it could've been awful for a kid who was left all alone (which is nearly everybody there). He took a break from work to be by my side and to nurture me while I was suffering and didn't know why that was happening to me. I was merely a child, and even now, as an 'adult' I don't think I'm understanding what's in my mind.

I kinda went into many things for my very first post, I tried to be concise, but knowing me, that's one of the things I find difficult to do. 

I got things way too dark for an introductory blog entry, but I got tired of hiding these details about me. I may not be able to say this to my friends (even if they're very few), meaning that I never opened up fully to them, but here I'm completelly transparent because I know nobody will read this. And if they do, they're a complete stranger (don't take this the wrong way, I appreciate you even if I don't know a single thing about you!).

This might be a one-sided conversation/relationship, you being a stranger and all, but writing makes me have my attention on something else besides my body. Don't get too attached to me, I'll do this just as often as I'm sculpting, which is every other instance of boredom.

this image explains it better than I could ever do

just, you know, with clothes on