Last night, with my right fist, I punched myself as hard as I could in the face. It landed just under my right eye; I was careful to avoid my nose, just because I hate the taste. Clearly, it was a ridiculous and childish thing to do. My lease is nearly up, however, and I'd sooner have the money to hire movers than repair drywall.
Because I'm a privileged individual, and am allowed to live my life exactly how I choose, I would also enjoy being berated by everyone I know about my red & puffy eye - but I don't actually come into contact with anyone, so essentially, I am robbed of that pleasure.
In junior high, I used my scissors to cut slits on the tip of fingers until they dripped with blood. Basically, instead of using a marker, I figured that my own blood would prove more of a statement to the project. We were drawing American flags, after all. My teacher nodded disapprovingly, however, and demanded I use the red markers instead.
Last weekend, I was waiting for my friend in the lobby of a hotel in Austin. One of my favorite things to do is play the pianos, as if I'm a busker. The weighted keys, the real acoustic vibrations, being able to glide across the scales without worrying about complaints. With an unencumbered mind, and perhaps a glass of scotch, something comes over me and I'm channeling everyone from J.S. to Thelonius; abendqextrous rolling segues between schizophrenic grooves a-la Cecil Taylor and devil-may-care Jerry Lee Lewis rock and roll. Sometimes I feel like I'm disconnected from the 'normal world' so that I can be a sort of conduit for the vagabond spirits of music: after all, music is the voice of God, so why shouldn't his angels be musicians? I have taught myself to play many other instruments, but I don't love any of them as much as a piano. Furthermore, although I never notice anything while I am playing, there is always a small congregation of people listening to me and smiling. I don't normally like attention, but that's no big thing. In fact, I kind of like it.
Later, I was at the piano again, but alone. When nobody is watching, sometimes I do the contrived, and play the opening bars to Imagine. It's hard for me to get it spot-on, because my right thumb is a bit angular and crooked. As such, I cannot help but play two keys as opposed to one. When my dad broke my thumb that day, he thought I was getting out of my chair to physically confront him during an argument, so he shoved me back into my seat. I've only ever hit one person in my life, and that's because that guy was hitting my best friend at a party. Regardless, my hand was in the way, and my thumb bent about 45 degrees to the southwest. He refused to take me to the doctor and I don't have medical insurance. So, I just have to work around that for the rest of my life, but I'm still pretty worried about arthritis. Good thing I don't need my right thumb to play any other instruments! lol.
I hurt myself on the outside to take my mind away from how much I hurt inside. I hurt myself to keep me from hurting other people, because sometimes I just want others to suffer like I do. Just never ask me what my problems are, because they don't actually exist. Well, actually, no worries: nobody has asked yet and I'm almost 30. It's 6 p.m. and I haven't gotten out of bed. It might rain.