(TW for some negative coping/self-harm discussion; though it will be matter of fact/clinical, not graphic)
Some people think the apocalypse is coming.
Whether this apocalypse is ushered in by zombies, warfare, the devil, or bad environmental management, there seems to be some consistencies in the behavior of those believers.
They plan. They organize. They stockpile.
There is a box or bin of supplies they have set aside for this possible apocalypse. Do they expect to use these supplies tomorrow? No. In a week? Most likely not.
They are just in case.
I have a similar stockpile. My apocalypse doesn’t feature zombies or nuclear warfare.
And unfortunately it happens often enough that my life could be considered a season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
But I still maintain that my stockpile of supplies are just in case.
When I order a new box of silver shining blades, I’m not thinking about the next time I’ll drag them across my flesh. I’m only thinking about how they are able to release the buzzing, nasty thoughts that sometimes run through my head. How they are able to prevent me from considering worse options.
When I set aside a certain amount of my daily pills for “an emergency”, most likely against what a doctor would recommend, it isn’t because I am suicidal. It is only to weather the storm of the apocalypse until it passes.
I have made a living out of surviving apocalypses. I consider myself a veteran by now.
And after emerging from the destruction of each one, I carefully set about resupplying my stockpile. My emergency rations.
Not all of it is harmful. Sure, there’s a pack of cigarettes (Charlotte’s favorite brand), but there’s also bath oil and a rich lotion that soothes the scratches on my skin. There’s a favorite book. A particular movie.
I weather the storm in many ways.
But every item has the same purpose. To distract, to relieve, to encourage until the danger passes and the sunlight can begin to filter through the shadows again.
Remember that. It isn’t about harming. Not truly. The idea isn’t to make myself a canvas of the macabre to be gawked at or pitied.
It’s all about surviving.
pen, paper, and crazy 