30 Day Self-Harm Challenge: Day 4

Day 4: Do You Consider Yourself Addicted?  Why or Why Not?

Addiction is something that runs deeply in my family.  I've already blogged about that a few times.  But the addictions that run in my family are drug or alcohol addictions.  Nobody really had an addiction to cutting.  

I would honestly have to say that, yes, I am addicted.  A lot of people think that self-harmers are addicted to the pain.  In my case, that is not true.  After a while, the pain kinda stopped.  It was the adrenaline rush.  It's better than roller coasters or driving way too fast.  The closest thing I can compare it to is getting a tattoo.  It feels about the same as far as pain and adrenaline.  The crash is... Amazing.  It's the best sleep I've ever had.  There were times when I would cut just so I could sleep.

I would definitely consider myself as being addicted to cutting.  Even now I crave it.   I want to feel the rush and the crash.  

I really don't have much more to say about my addiction.  It's pretty self-explanatory.

Scooter Out.

Pokemon.... The Story Of My Childhood

It began innocently.... As most addictions do.  I just thought I'd play casually.  An every now and then kind of game.  Then.... My mom bought me this:

That's when it got harder to control.  Seeing my Pokemon in black and white was one thing.  Seeing them in color.... I was hooked.  I began playing more and more.  Then, suddenly just these weren't enough:

I wanted more than just the original 150!  I don't know why, but I needed it!  Then Christmas came.  In my stocking, Santa had bestowed upon me the greatest of gifts.  These:

And this:

Soon after, Pokemon became much more than a game.  It became a way of life.  I never left home without my Game Boy Color and a game.  It went with me everywhere.  At school, I hid it under the lunch table and played.  During recess, I'd hid behind the big oak tree on the hill.  Cradled in its hollow roots, it was there I defeated the Elite 4.  The victory was sweet.  But not sweet enough. 

Soon, my addiction began to evolve from just playing the games.  I wanted, no... NEEDED more.  It started with these:

I had hundreds of them.  And I could defeat even some of the most practiced battlers.  I was a champion.  Once I got over the high of these petty cards, I had to move up.  It was time for something different.  A friend of mine got me hooked on these:

These were just a little thing to me.  There was no real way to stratigize or plan with these.  But it didn't matter.  By this time, I was in middle school, dressing like this:

I was boasting the superiority of my starter, and when I got home in the afternoons I immediately ran to my bedroom for my fix.

I was completely determined to be the very best.... Like no one ever was.  I watched the shows.  Played the games.  Had the cards, the marbles, the shirts.  Even my hackey sack was Pokemon!

Then...  My mind began to come unhinged.  I thought about Pokemon being real.  I looked for them.  I looked for them in places like this:

As well as places like this:



My friend who had introduced me to the marbles was as bad as I was.  We had Pokemon battles with each other.  But only we could see them.  My trusty starter was as real to me as my dog.  I saw him.  He was my friend.

But one day....  After years of devotion, love, sweat, tears and training.... Tragedy struck.  My mother, my dear mother who had bought me my first game system and games... She uttered the words that no child should hear.  She said... "Ella, you're getting to old for the Pokemon crap.  I'm going to put all this junk in our next yard sale." 

Too old.  Crap.  Junk.  Yard sale.  I was crushed.  Decimated.  How could she think that my life's works was junk?  Or crap?  How could you ever get too old to feel the joy of switching on your Game Boy?  Or feel the adrenaline of a heated battle with Team Rocket?  But.... I knew it was over.  Sure, I fought her, but I was powerless to resist.  All my hard work was gone.

The next year I started high school.  Without my trusty Bulbasaur at my side.  Without my Trainer shirts.  My games.  My cards.  My marbles.  Not even my hackey sack made it. 

It was then that I realized that, while I had become a Pokemon Master, I had failed at real life.  The life that I thought was dull and tasteless for it's lack of Pokemon.  I had no friends to speak of.  They had all "grown out of that kiddie Poke-phase".  So... Like a true Master, I picked myself up, dusted myself off, and began anew.  With life staring me in the face, my loss didn't seem quite so bad...

Scooter Out.

*Note - This is a dramatized story of my childhood addiction to Pokemon.  I'm sure if I cared to look back on that dark time of my life then I'm sure my loss wouldn't be so bad.... Maybe.