If Normal were a color- An open letter to young readers

Painting a picture of normal 

If normal were a color it would have many profound shades. Many struggle with the palette of normal and believe to their core they are not. However who claims normal to be a pure consistent hue of certainty? We know young people struggle with personal identification and normalcy. We know many adults model what they believe to be a normal persona in thought and action. Young people are particularly susceptible to decision making which may have an immediate effect on their current situation. Most who suffer from behavioral health issues seek a life of pure consistent normalcy. This innate drive is fostered by internal and external factors alike. Young people want to feel, be normal to others. They seek concrete reinforcement form their immediate surroundings. I was never comfortable with myself as an adolescent. I never felt as though I fit in. I surrounded myself with others who didn't fit in. I engaged in behaviors which made me numb to the uncomfortableness. I felt lost, trapped, hopeless. I put myself in the position to allow others to define me, my character. No matter how hard I tried I could not find normal…or at least what I thought normal should be. As I have grown older I still struggle with the socially acceptable “normal”. I still do not know what that means and I somehow have found comfort in understanding that there are many shades of normal. 

In my painting of normal there are many colors and shades, on most days my painting looks completely different then it did the day before. And I find comfort in that.

if you struggle with normal please know you are not alone, if you cannot find someone to talk to out of fear of judgement, please know I understand. 

B

82.1

82.1

How do you fill the emptiness, the feeling that never goes away? 

How do you face the day, the world? 

How do you get out of bed? 

How do you continue on? 

How do you keep it to yourself?

How do you hide it?

How do you act normal?

How do you communicate with others?

How do you face yourself?

How do you explain it to others?

How do you do you?

How do you feel normal?

How do you do it?

on average 82.1 people commit suicide each day…RIP RW

Violence. Where does it start, where does it end.

This week I have spent much time dealing with, talking about, and processing violence. I was asked to do an antiviolence workshop with inmates in prison. A daunting task. To discuss, educate, and motivate some men with severe histories of violent behavior. I spent some one on one time with a person resorting to threats to attempt to get his way. I talked to someone whose family is being victimized by another family member. I attended a victim impact panel for DUI offenders and allowed tears to run down my face when listening, and tragically a young man at our local high school committed suicide…reportedly a victim of bullying. I am by no means an expert on violence but I did understand the complexities of how it plants its roots and grows. Some acts of violence are never understood and some acts are never acceptable no matter the reasoning. I believe if a person does not address their feelings, does not clear their conscience, those corrupted emotions can grow like a weed, a parasite that takes over and destroys its host.

I do have a history of anger and violence. I have invested relentlessly to address these issues. To make amends for harm I have caused. To be aware, mindful of my emotions. To take care of myself. To ask for help, talk to others. The effects of violence are like a rock thrown into the center of a pond. It creates ripples that have an effect far reaching. Many perpetrators of violence fail to acknowledge the true harm that has been caused. They believe this is an act between themselves and a victim. Sometimes never acknowledging there is a victim (“they deserved it” mentality). No one wants to be a victim. As many perpetrators of violence were once victims themselves. 

The world is full of violence which is hard to fathom or even begin to understand, however I believe that we as citizens of our communities, our world must invest in helping to address the needs of others. To hold out a hand, to comfort, to listen, to show compassion and empathy. To believe in repairing harm, to giving back.

I’m trying… 

B

I didn't want to die but I didn't want to live-by request and censored by request

The first time I cut my wrists,
a great light came over me,
not only had I found a way to release my sadness but I also found the perfect way to illustrate my emotions. I had this mark on my body that conveyed a message for all to see. A message that could only be interpreted one way, I was hurting. My self harm was a perfect complement to my substance abuse, I could intoxicate myself, cut on myself to amplify the high, release my sadness, and send a message to those around me that my life was spiraling out of control and that I had deep rooted emotional issues. I wore the cuts on my body like huge billboards, “I’M HURTING”. I never wanted to kill myself but romanticized the idea that I could cut deeper, more, bigger and come close to death. In fact the closer I came, the better it felt.

The more I cut, the better I felt.

What started as an experiment with emotions and pain quickly developed into an obsession.
I cut on myself everyday; designing patterns of marks that somehow exemplified the number of times I had felt pain. The only problem is I didn't have enough skin. I cut on cuts, I cut on scabs, and I cut and cut. The group of people I hung around were impressed with my cutting. Other kids at my high school, with whom I had never spoken, came forward to compare their cutting to mine, an exchange of desires, dreams, and shared pain; a somewhat intimate exchange. Finally they must have thought someone we can relate to and someone who needs us. I never wanted to gain any relationships from my self-harm, only bring attention and resolve to the destructive nature of my own existence. I became obsessed with using different instruments to cut with razor blades, utility knife blades, broken glass, pins, and needles. As the sensation of cutting began to numb, new ways became a last option. I began to burn “blue circles” into my wrists using a cigarette. I would lie in bed and choke myself. I would punch myself repeatedly in the face and stomach. I didn't want to die but I knew I didn't want to live.
B

My name is Brad and I have a history of self harm

I want to share with you one of my darkest secrets. A behavior, an emotion, a "thing" that for many years I wanted to believe was not something I had done to myself. Something so embarrassing to admit that I attempted to bury it forever. I didn't know how to talk about it, didn't know how to explain it. It has been many, many years since I harmed myself. In fact I engaged in this between the ages of 15-17. 

I wrote this a couple of years ago after attending a conference session on women who harm themselves. Afterwards I spent some time with the presenter describing some of my self harm and she challenged me to come out of my self imposed darkness and be willing to admit it and someday discuss it. I want you to know this comes with much hesitation and that I will post links to sites where help can be sought. 

The first time I cut my wrists,

a great light came over me,

not only had I found a way to release my sadness but I also found the perfect way to illustrate my emotions. I had this mark on my body that conveyed a message for all to see. A message that could only be interpreted one way, I was hurting. My self harm was a perfect compliment to my substance abuse, I could intoxicate myself, cut on my self to amplify the high, release my sadness, and send a message to those around me that my life was spiraling out of control and that I had deep rooted emotional issues. I wore the cuts on my body like huge billboards, “I’M HURTING”. I never wanted to kill myself but romanticized the idea that I could cut deeper, more, bigger and come close to death. In fact the closer I came, the better it felt.

The more I cut, the better I felt.

What started as an experiment with emotions and pain quickly developed into an obsession.

I cut on myself everyday; designing patterns of marks that somehow exemplified the number of times I had felt pain. The only problem is I didn’t have enough skin. I cut on cuts, I cut on scabs, and I cut and cut. The group of people I hung around were impressed with my cutting. Other kids at my high school, with whom I had never spoken, came forward to compare their cutting to mine, an exchange of desires, dreams, and shared pain; a somewhat intimate exchange. Finally they must have thought someone we can relate to and someone who needs us. I never wanted to gain any relationships from my self-harm, only bring attention and resolve to the destructive nature of my own existence. I became obsessed with using different instruments to cut with razor blades, utility knife blades, broken glass, pins, and needles. As the sensation of cutting began to numb, new ways became a last option. I began to burn “blue circles” into my wrists using a cigarette. I would lie in bed and choke myself. I would punch myself repeatedly in the face and stomach. 

I didn’t want to die but I knew I didn’t want to live. 

B

http://www.selfinjury.com/

https://www.facebook.com/SHAwareness
http://www.twloha.com/