Coming of age

In those films where the sweet child turns into this brooding new entity, I struggle to find things to relate to. I don't remember any transition. I don't remember any marked period. What I remember is being a child and then not being a child and realizing this so suddenly that I was not prepared to stop the fear from coming in through the doors. 

I often fantasize about my childhood. It wasn't a particularly good one, but it was mine. I also don't remember a lot about it, some suppressed memory bullshit probably. Perhaps the biggest thing I miss is not having people care for me and baby me, but having a self that I could turn to. Some identity, some assurance of who and what I am. When I was sad and young, I would cry. Now I cry and hate myself and hate myself for crying. Now some boy thinks I'm a monster, which is the cruelest thing to do to someone suicidal. Now, I get suicidal. 

When I was a kid my arms were smooth and soft and the skin was only marred by the occasional knick from playing in the garden and climbing trees. Now, I can't remember what it even was like to have no red lines running vertically up and down from wrist to elbow. And the raised ones, oh god they hurt when I stretch my arms out. And they itch. And they ache. And those are just my arms now. Not like when I was a kid, but at least for this one thing I do remember when the Before became the After. And the After stayed the Present and the arms have bled into the hands and if surface and aesthetic damage was bad, wait til you hear about the nerve damage. Never had those problems as a kid. But I suppose they were just lying in wait, patiently letting the years pass until it was time.

I hope to whoever that there's no After this After. I have run out of space to cut and run out of pain to bleed.