Copyright JanMika, used under license from bigstockphoto.com
[TRIGGER WARNING for discussions of suicide and self-harm.]
I cut myself.
Four for the punishment, and four for the pain.
I’m surprised I’d gone this long without doing it. I thought I was legitimately getting better. Now I know it’s just that nothing has stressed me out to the point of needing to do it.
But tonight something did.
I blew up at TM, horribly, over something stupid, over something that could’ve easily been explained in a few words and subsequently fixed.
But I chose instead to run with the anger, to pick up on the worst possible interpretations of his meanings and twist them so much that they were mere distorted wisps of what he’d actually said.
I let the fear take over my mind and control me. Fear that he was trying to control me. Fear that I was making the biggest mistake of my life, and here was proof. Fear that I was losing everything by giving up everything to get everything; and look, here was him, taking even more away from me.
No money. No family. No career. No identity.
And now, no friends. All because it made him “uncomfortable.”
Strung out as I already was with anxiety, it’s no surprise that my mind latched on to the first sign of danger and spun it until it was out of control. But it was too late. I didn’t even know I was capable of saying such hateful things.
Needless to say, when I had hung up the phone and was lying in bed despising myself and wishing for non-existence, I desperately needed something to take away the pain.
I could kill myself. No, too messy, and too much work.
Get drunk? It’s cold outside, and the convenience store is too far away.
I could cut? Fuck, I threw away that razor.
Oh, wait, there’s a knife in the kitchen… and the cleaners just came by, and miraculously for some reason they did all the dishes as well…
Yeah. I finally found my solution.
Four on the right leg to take away the pain.
Four on the left for what I did to the one on the right.
And for what I did to TM.
I feel a lot better now. Still shitty about what went down, still dreading the horrible making-up-and-apologizing conversation I’m going to have to have with TM later, but at least I feel like I can sleep now. I hate that this is the way I have to go about it, but I don’t know of any better way.
I hope one day my kids won’t ever have to see me like this.