You know you’re doing better when you can thoroughly feel all the sad things people say, but those words don’t describe you anymore.
About three weeks ago, R got a full-time job offer. Three hours later, I was laid off.
I decided to not continue working and I applied for disability. It will take six months for a decision.
In the meantime, I’ve been volunteering. I cook breakfast at our homeless shelter twice a week, and I take any leftovers to the homeless people that live in the park. It’s the most rewarding thing I’ve ever done. I absolutely love it. I (almost) don’t mind getting up at 5am, it’s so amazing.
I also am volunteering with a low-income childcare center once a week, helping three- and four-year-olds get ready for kindergarten.
Additionally, I’ve signed up to be a CASA (a court-appointed representative for children in abusive situations/foster care), and an on-scene victim advocate. Those positions don’t start until next year, but the training should start soon.
I really enjoy volunteering. So much has been given to me in my life, and specifically over the past year, and it feels good to move that forward or something. I’m very lucky that R’s salary is enough to cover our cost of living, and that he supports me in taking some time off to figure things out.
I think I’m feeling better. My volunteer shifts are no more than two hours a day, so I don’t feel the mental exhaustion I was experiencing. My relationship with R has improved (to the point that we’re pregnant, haha). I’m still seeing M four times a week – though it seems to always turn into five times, somehow. She has been really amazing. She was the first person I told that I was pregnant, and she let me stay in the therapy building all day, inviting me in the office between clients and basically hanging out with me for six hours.
So, being pregnant. Like I said, it was a complete shock. I’m not supposed to be able to get pregnant without the help of fertility drugs and all that. For those of you also struggling with PCOS, I was taking 500mg twice daily of Metformin, and 600mg twice daily of D-Chrio Inositol. (I started taking them again because I thought M thought I was fat, so I blame her for this baby ). Anyway, it must have done wonders for my reproductive system, and my mind must have been in the right place, because R and I have amazing sex and bam: there’s a baby.
How do I feel about the baby? Well, for one thing, I’m really happy that it was conceived through good sex. That might sound a little weird, but oftentimes my sexual encounters involve dissociation and/or cutting and/or crying, and none of these things happened. It was good, safe sex. So this baby didn’t start its life through terror. That is really important to me.
However, the baby is absolutely unplanned. As I said, I’m unemployed, and I don’t think going back to work would be ideal for my head, and thus not ideal for my baby. We’re living in a basement apartment, and I have an extreme urge to buy a house or a condo, so I can give the baby something that more resembles real life and not a cave. Also, R is really really nervous about the whole thing. He wanted me to get an abortion. I did consider it, but I’m not supposed to get pregnant easily and I don’t know if this is my only chance. And, I don’t know. I don’t believe in god or fate or what have you, and I absolutely believe in a woman’s right to choose. And I also cannot kill this baby. I mean, somehow, I actually made a fucking egg, and R’s sperm got through all my hostile barriers, and it grew and multiplied and all the things that embryos do, and it implanted (I felt this! It was crazy), and now it’s a little six-week-old lentil. I have this fierce sense of protection around it, especially from people that want to kill it, like R.
We talked about adoption, which I’m not too big on, but would at least allow my baby to live, and I could choose who he lived with (I feel that this baby is absolutely a boy). I mean, I would be terrified for its safety because of the protection I feel for it already, but perhaps I could choose good parents who would protect it just as much – or maybe better – than I would. So, R and I discussed this, but he feels weird about it, too – his kid being out there in the world somewhere. So, after a six hour talk and an ocean of tears and so many feelings, we decided to keep it. He says he’s not ready and he doesn’t want kids, but I guess he’s committed enough at the moment to be willing to do it. The news is still only about six days old, so we’re both going to need some time to wrap our heads around it.
My hCG was 1415 at my first blood work, which is high-ish, and my progesterone was 18.76, which is low (they want it to be at least 20). So they put me on progesterone vaginal suppositories (fun) to raise my progesterone, and I went back in 48 hours for more blood work. Your hCG is supposed to double or something in the 48 hours; mine was 3005, and my progesterone was up to 29, so these are good things. However, because I’m paranoid, I’m convinced that this pregnancy is a molar pregnancy or a blighted ovum or something, where the egg didn’t contain a nucleus or whatever and there will be just a bunch of non-baby cells when we go to the first ultrasound. (This is next Monday. We get to hear the heartbeat, if there is one.)
I’m taking a ton of pills, which I hate. I want this pregnancy to be as natural as possible. I want to have a good relationship with my body and I want to do that by trusting that it knows what the hell it’s doing. But, I’m still on the Metformin and the DCI, and the progesterone, and Omega-3 (vegetarian), and folic acid, and FUCKING PRENATAL VITAMINS. Oh my god, I hate them. The ones I got are from Whole Foods and they are awful. They are fucking huge and they make me gag because they taste so bad. I’m going to have to go get a different brand or something. I almost threw up this morning.
Speaking of throwing up – let’s talk symptoms! I had a strong feeling I was pregnant for about three days before I actually took a test. Things just seemed a little different in some weird way. I felt cramps, which I first took to be the start of my period, but they were different and persisted. I wondered if something was drilling its way into my uterine wall. And I had weird breast pain, again, sort of like before your period, but more persistent and different. And I felt bloated, but the bloatedness wasn’t going away. And the biggest thing is is that I was at an all-time high of craziness. In therapy, I had visions of strangling M. And I would sob uncontrollably. (M was very nice – after the session in which I wanted to kill her, I went to the bathroom and sliced my arm. She came in and cleaned me up and took care of me. I love her.) So, there were all these things. But, like I said, I wasn’t supposed to be able to get pregnant. So I went out and bought a few tests last Wednesday morning and took one, and threw it on my bathroom counter in frustration because I was sure I was just this fat, infertile, crazy person. And I didn’t even give it the full time that you’re supposed to, but I glanced over and there was a seriously dark positive sign in the little window. Holy mother fucker.
The nicest part about this is that I understand why I was crazy. I mean, it was a whole new level of crazy and I didn’t know where it was coming from. Now that I have an explanation, the craziness isn’t so scary which means it isn’t so crazy.
I’m also worried that I’ll miscarry because I’m just not supposed to be able to get pregnant. And, because this little baby has R and me for parents, it probably already knows how terrible and meaningless life is and is likely just going to kill itself in utero ;). Can’t say I wouldn’t envy it.
So, about that, the whole what’s-up-with-my-head thing, I mean, I don’t know. I stopped cutting the day my pregnancy test said “positive”, but I miss it. It is really, really, really difficult to not cut. I think about it all the time, I even dream about it. The trichotillomania and dermatillomania have increased because I don’t have another satisfying outlet for my fuckedupness. Stupid shit like walking and listening to music and whatever the fuck else do not work. The whole idea of having a baby is stressful, and trying to figure out what to do about our living situation and R not being on board really adds to that, plus, you know, I’m still in therapy. I’m considering going back to cutting because I know that transferring a ton of stress hormones to your baby can give it PTSD, and because I just really miss the blood. But R will be super pissed, and he’s already worried if I’m too crazy to have a baby. And, I don’t know, I want to be a mom who has her shit together. I know that that probably isn’t any mom anywhere, but I’ll feel really bad if my kid sees my new cuts or sees me covered in blood or something. I mean, that’s horribly traumatic. And honestly, hiding cutting or moving it to a place on my body that isn’t where I want it to be just isn’t going to cut it (haha, no pun intended), either. I want to cut where I want to cut, and that is really the only satisfying way. So, I might as well give it up, but it’s terribly hard. I gave M all my blades, but yesterday I found one in the back of a drawer. It’s still there, though I haven’t used it.
I’m also really nervous about the pregnancy thing in general. I mean, I don’t really have a good connection with my body, and it’s going to change a shit ton in a few short months. I’m terrified of getting fat so I’m not really eating, which isn’t good for the lentil, I know. I’m scared of people touching me in places I’m not comfortable with. I’m planning on a home birth with a midwife, but we all know how few things actually go as planned, and I’m scared of ending up in the hospital with male doctors looking at me naked from the waist down. I know that I need to talk about these things in therapy, but I’m not ready. I’m not ready for that, and I wasn’t ready to give up cutting.
And, you know, this means I can’t kill myself, and I sure as hell want to.
In sum, I’m terrified. And I’m excited. When I’m not thinking about slicing up my skin, I’m kind of embracing this curve ball that life threw at me, and I sort of feel ready to manage it. R will love the baby, and M said she will be as involved as she can, with the whole therapy-boundary thing in mind. Things are better with my relationship with my parents, so I know that I’ll be able to talk to them if I need help (they don’t know yet. We want to wait until we’re through the first trimester). Unfortunately, because I went crazy, I lost all of my friends here and the ones that I do have are across the country. We don’t have a lot of physical support. But I guess there are mom groups and shit, so I could meet people, and I’m building a few relationships with the volunteering.
I miss cutting. And this is going to be okay.
I don’t know what else to say because I’m in shock .
I’m finally feeling up to writing.
Today starts the third week of the new therapy schedule with M. After tomorrow night, it will be half over.
My thoughts feel particularly scattered, so apologies for the following sporadicness.
I guess I should try to summarize how the last eight sessions have been. Walking is going alright, though it is getting cold. M is looking for her own office. I pay her $1200/month so I’m not sure why it’s so hard to find something. That’s like a mortgage payment.
I wish I had the option to walk. Right now, we walk on Mondays and Thursdays, and we’re in the office when it’s available to her on Tuesdays and Saturdays. Sometimes, there are things I want to talk about that would be more effectively done while sitting down. M seems to understand this.
R and I met with her a little over a week ago because he is getting fed up with the lack of progress and he wanted to ask M questions. It was very distressing. He kind of interrogated her and she got really defensive. I hid under my coat and dissociated. It felt to me like R was going to make me see someone else or he would leave me. Thankfully, M was able to reassure him that she does want to work with me, and the amount of confidence she has in helping me seemed to convince him that it was worth sticking out. Like she said, there’s no guarantee that working with someone else would necessarily be better – though, I think he still would prefer I see someone with more experience or someone who specializes in whatever the fuck is wrong with my head.
Two weeks ago, M presented to me a referral for a higher level of care. She wants me to go inpatient. She thinks a team approach would be more helpful. There’s a home-based recovery center where I live where you basically are inpatient, but you live at home. I’m not sure how it works, but it would allow me to keep seeing M. I guess she’d become part of their “team”. But, the whole thing is based on mindfulness and meditative crap, because our town is kind of hippie-esque, and that is not what I’m looking for. All of these facilities cost around $50,000, and my insurance will cover very little of it. M thinks my parents have the money for it, but anytime I mention it to my mom, she kind of brushes it aside, so they either don’t want to help me or they can’t. And there’s no way I’m taking out a loan or whatever unless I’m confident in the program. The only facility that I’d be willing to try is on the other side of the country, and I obviously can’t bring M with me, so inpatient is out of the question.
M’s referral mentioned that she knew that there were various constraints around me going inpatient, so she said that in lieu of that, she wanted me to get psychiatric and psychological testing. Somehow, she felt that seeing a psychologist once and fighting over the necessity of medication with a psychiatrist would be the same as going inpatient.
She said that she still would work with me if I didn’t do any of it, but she wanted me to sign the referral. Basically, it was a piece of paper that protected her when I commit suicide.
I told her to fuck off.
A week later, I learned that M’s supervisor, E, had told M that if M didn’t drop me, E would drop M. E is skittish because she had a client kill themselves, and she thinks I’m too risky to work with or something. I remember M being excited to work with E because E is very smart and a good therapist. But M decided to stop working with E. She cites one of the reasons being that she would prefer to be supervised by someone who feels confident in handling high-risk cases, as I’m not the only high-risk client that she has. But, let’s not forget what happened here:
M did not drop me.
She could have. She was well within her right to do it. She probably should have done it. But she didn’t.
Of course, I’m trying to rationalize it with the notion that M knows that if she did drop me, I would kill myself. It would absolutely happen. She probably feels trapped and thinks that she’s damned if she works with me, and she’s damned if she doesn’t. But, the tiniest, littlest part of me is secretly hopeful that part of her didn’t drop me because she doesn’t want to.
I feel scared typing that out, like someone is going to snatch it away from me.
So, that was kind of a turning point for me.
Another thing we’ve discussed is physical contact. So, I fucking love it when M hugs me. If I could live in a hug with her for the rest of my life, I’d do it. She’s warm and she smells good and I feel so safe. Except when I don’t, which has been a little bit, lately. Occasionally I wonder about her motivations for hugging me – is she grooming me? Is her hand going to slip “accidentally”? I feel like I’m flattering myself, but you can never be too careful. This seemed to concern her, that I felt this way. She told me that I can always say no if I don’t want to hold her hand or whatever, and that she will respect that. She said that she wants to hug me because she feels maternal. This makes zero sense to me: people want to touch me because they want to do inappropriate things to me. Maternal and safe physical contact do not coexist in the same sentence. My mom is very awkward when it comes to hugging and stuff, so I’m confused as to what to do with M and suspicious of what she does. It’s difficult because I feel like I need to be on guard, and at the same time, I want to drop my defenses and let her do maternally things. I love it, and I’m scared to love it.
I’ve been writing M a lot of emails. I’m kind of surprised at that because I’m seeing her four times a week, but I feel like I have a lot to say. M never brings them up in session and that is really frustrating to me. Last Thursday, it all came to a head. I’ve told M that when she asks me what I want to talk about, everything goes blank and I have no idea. One Monday, she actually picked the topic (how did my parents show attention), and I was able to talk for the full hour. I was actually doing therapy. Last Thursday, I also told her that if there is something I want to talk about, I can’t do it. We spent the entire session walking around while she tried to pull out the reason of why I can’t talk. I got pretty frustrated and told her that I’d given her all the pieces to the puzzle, and why couldn’t she just see the bigger picture? We’ve been working together for over a year. “I am seeing the bigger picture,” she said. Uh, okay, M. I told her that the reason for me not telling her why I can’t talk is the same reason for not being able to talk, if that makes any sense. She did some guessing (“You don’t want to talk because you feel vulnerable and you’re afraid that if I ‘see’ you, I’ll think you’re weird like your mom does.”) Not really. I mean, a little, but not really. Anyway, she guessed, and I tried to guide her with questions:
N: Why do you think I email you?
M: Because you don’t feel comfortable talking about things in session.
N: Right, but….
N: How do you think I feel when you don’t bring up anything that I email you about?
M: That the topics are unimportant. [Psychological jargon that I don’t remember.]
N: You’re getting too far away from it.
M had gotten close enough where I felt I could kind of just, I don’t know… confirm what she was thinking, or explain what I was thinking, or something. So, I told her that I don’t email her about everything, and that I email about things that I think are important, but I’m not sure if they are or not. So, when M declines to bring up anything I’ve written about, this confirms for me that the topics are not important enough to discuss, and I was ridiculous for even thinking about them in the first place. And, I didn’t tell her this part, but it’s really fucking hurtful when she doesn’t talk about stuff that I write about. I mean, I’ve written about psychosis and wanting to kill myself the next day and she doesn’t address anything, and it leaves me in a state of confusion.
I made M repeat what I had said so I would be sure that she understood it. “You don’t want to say things and have it be the N Show,” she said. Exactly. Exactly, M. Thank fucking Jesus. Took you long enough.
M tried to dispel my belief that she doesn’t care about what I say, and that she doesn’t think the things are important. She said that of course she cares, and she absolutely thinks that what I write about is important. I told her that she might be saying that, but her actions say otherwise.
We were almost at the end of our walk when I told her the reason for why I don’t talk. I felt gross and slimy, like she’d pulled this thing out of me that she knew I didn’t want to talk about. I dissociated at the end of the session and I guess I ended up in the bathroom in the building, but I don’t remember a lot of it. I woke up on the bathroom floor with quite a few cuts on my arms, and M was nowhere to be found. I left the building but didn’t think I could drive, so I ended up walking to where there were people in a well-lit area. Unfortunately, I passed a few restaurants that were playing music outside, and the notes started chasing me and I had a psychosis thing or whatever. It was pretty fucking scary. I called a couple of crisis lines but couldn’t get through, and it was dark and cold and late and the notes were everywhere. I ended up calling M and we talked for about sixty seconds before her phone died. It took me a few days to realize this, but I think I’m kind of irritated with her. I mean, her phone isn’t really under her control, but I think she probably knew that I wasn’t in a good state and she left me. She doesn’t have to stay with me, necessarily, but she could have called R or something. I wasn’t safe and I wasn’t happy with how I felt pressured to talk (I mean, I know, it’s therapy, but I don’t know), and it makes me nervous to talk about anything because I don’t know what will happen at the end. There isn’t a plan.
M has been encouraging me to look into going on disability because it’s really hard for me to work sometimes. Psychotic episodes and dissociation and being so overwhelmed that I need to go sleep in my car do not make me a productive employee. She thinks that if I wasn’t working, I could solely focus my energy on therapy and “getting better”. This is also some of her reasoning for wanting me to go inpatient. But the work I have to do is ridiculously – almost insultingly – easy, and I feel like, I don’t know… gross or something, for even considering quitting my job. I’m not saying at all that people who need benefits are gross – that’s what the programs are there for. But that’s exactly it: they’re there for people that need them. I don’t need them. I’m not physically ill or whatever. I’m capable of doing my job, and I feel like I would be taking advantage of social assistance if I were to be granted it. M tried to counter that if I was well off, there would be nothing wrong with quitting my job and living off my wealth. I suppose that’s true, but I still think that I would be taking from a limited resource and not letting someone else who really needs it have access. It makes me feel gross. And, I really, really want to do it.
I’ve been on the edge of suicide for the past two weeks, and I tried to, you know, do it, on Saturday. M listened to me and stuff, but she basically was like, “If you’re going to kill yourself, you’re going to the hospital,” and I just wanted to be left alone so I could do it. But, obviously, I failed (again). I went home but was really upset and restless for a few hours, so I drove myself to the hospital and sat in the waiting room while I tried to decide if I wanted to admit myself or not. It didn’t seem appropriate for me to do so; all the people in the ER were there because they wanted to live, and I don’t. And they all had people with them, visitors and such, and I was alone. I’m alone.
I didn’t admit myself, but I did kind of text M my stream-of-consciousness thoughts while I was sitting there, because I thought her phone was still dead. Turns out, it wasn’t, and she basically let me talk to her via text for a while. I told her I kind of felt this rage thing towards her and she let me say stuff. I talked about there not being a plan for if things get bad, and how terrified I am to do therapy, and how when I feel like killing myself, all the “skills” she wants me to use seem pointless and ridiculous and petty. It felt pretty good to say those things to her, and it was really nice of her to let me do that, since texting is supposed to be for logistics.
I have been thinking about why I’ve been so suicidal the past two weeks. M wonders if it was a buildup of stress or something, but I don’t think that’s it. I think that it’s not a coincidence that my suicidal ideation has been severe, and started about three days before we changed our frequency to four times a week. I had agreed that I would “do” therapy if M would see me this often, and I think I was so terrified to actually commit to it that I decided to kill myself instead. It sounds ridiculous, but that’s how scared I am.
So, what do I need in order to do therapy, and continue to feel safe?
See M often – check (though, I would never turn down seeing her more)
Feel like M wants to work with me – I think we can call this a check!
Have M available to me in some way if things are bad and I need her – not quite, but amazingly close
Not having to work so I can focus on therapy – what’s the opposite of check? Not check?
Figure out if M has ulterior motives for physical contact – unclear
Have some sort of plan if things are bad during or at the end of the session – nope
I’m also nervous that M will cut me back to three sessions a week at the end of our trial. She said she didn’t want things to bleed over into her life and boy, they are bleeding now more than ever. I mean, I won’t be surprised at all of she goes back to three. But it will absolutely crush me. It will be terrible. I don’t know what I’m going to do.
I guess the illation of this post is something that I have been semi-consciously aware of the past few weeks: M is trying harder. I’m not sure what the motivation is, or if she’s really been trying this hard the whole time and I’m just now noticing it, or what. But she seems more attuned to what I’m saying and kind of letting me do things when I need to. I feel like she’s with me, finally, for the first time in a really long time. It feels good.
I don’t like to write like this on here. I worry that I will sound dramatic, but is it dramatized if it’s really, honestly what’s going on in my head? Does it really matter anyway? Fuck it, it’s my blog and I’m going to do what I want.
I don’t recognize myself.
I mean, yes, I don’t recognize myself in the mirror. This has been happening ever since I decided to look in one, I think. I still peer into the reflective glass and expect to see a little girl looking back at me. My face isn’t mine and I know this. Sometimes this causes a psychotic episode, and other times I am able to look away.
But what I guess what I mean is that I don’t recognize my life. I am far, far from the person that I was a year ago, or ten years ago, or twenty-four years ago. I was N: smart, successful, quick on my feet. I got excellent grades and never wanted to stop learning. I loved to read and did so with ease. Oftentimes in elementary school we would go around the classroom taking turns reading aloud. When it got to me, I had to flip back a few pages because I had eagerly read ahead in the story. Stupid stuff like that.
R and I had a loving, physically fulfilling, fun relationship based on our mutual enjoyment of each other and our love of knowledge. We would go out together at midnight and walk around 24hour stores as a date. We would read the news and discuss issues. We saw in each other the difference from the general human populous and from our families. I logically never believed in soul mates, but if there was such a thing, R was mine.
I knew where I stood morally and used those attributes to describe myself: fiercely socially liberal and otherwise conservative, an atheist, a vegetarian. I wanted to get married (or at least have a committed partner), and raise morally just, atheist, vegetarian children. My idea of life was pretty well laid out and I felt comfortable with my place in it.
I have no idea who I am now. I am a mess. I hid under my desk at work last week because the notes were scaring me. A woman and a young boy were speaking to me in a language that I didn’t recognize. I sit in the shower and fantasize about my suicide until the hot water runs out. I haven’t brushed my hair in months. I eat very little so I can stay skinny. M let me borrow a book to read and my brain won’t focus on the individual words. I have to return it to her unread. I am spending $1000 a month on therapy, and because of that I am broke. I can barely work and dissociate often. The only reason I work is so that I can afford therapy, and because of work, I need to be in therapy. I try to sleep as much as I can so I don’t have to be aware of my existence. Days, nights, and weekends lag on with a feeling of endless ennui. I have lost all of my friends – not that they were friends, really, to begin with, but at least they were people to spend time with. I miss my relationship with my husband and I am terrified to try anything remotely resembling sex. He is thinking about leaving me – not because of me, exactly, but because he doesn’t know how long he can live like this.
I cannot talk to R because I am afraid that one more step will push him away. I cannot talk to M because she has made it clear to me that she will be investigated when I commit suicide. She could lose her job, her supervisor could lose her job, perhaps even the supervisor’s supervisor. That’s a lot of responsibility for me to carry, so I choose to spare her of any knowledge that could affect these people. If she doesn’t know of my plans, then there will be nothing to write in the notes, and she will be able to be honest when she is questioned about any knowledge of my intentions. I can spare the last two people in my life, but it is painfully lonely.
I resemble nothing of my former self. I am a shell of a person with rotting, decaying organs for a core, and overflowing with emptiness. I am sad, painfully sad, and I feel nothing. I have no desires or ambitions. I find no pleasure or joy in anything. I just wait for the next day, and the next day, and the next day. Sometimes this deadening of my existence is lightened a little by spending time with M, but it just makes the departing that much more painful. I have lost everyone and everything about myself that I knew. I cannot read, and I cannot think, and I cannot learn. My brain has died and I am just waiting for my body to follow.
Today, I start therapy.
I mean, I’ve been in therapy for almost fourteen months now, so obviously I started it a while back. But, today is the day that I’m committing myself to actually doing it.
I will not say “fine” when M asks me how I am. I will probably say “I don’t know,” but that will be the truth.
I will not refuse to talk out of stubbornness or to prove a point to M. I will not harbour or censor my thoughts. I will not remain silent when I know the answers to M’s questions. I will try to push through the discomfort and the potentially painful subjects. I will also attempt to be aware of when I need to back off.
I’m doing this because M has agreed to see me four times a week. I can’t just lollygag about anymore. This is real.
I don’t know what I expect to get out of it. And this is only a trial; we’ve committed to doing this for five weeks. I still think everything is essentially pointless, and I still view therapy as a place to get some relief until the day comes when I’m ready to be done with life. But, M must see something, or hope for something, if she’s willing to work with me this often. If she thought I was hopeless, she wouldn’t be trying so hard. I at least owe her the same amount of effort.
October 10th, 2012:
You’ve got the lights off in your Monday office. I don’t know if it was planned, but I like to think that you did it for me, because you know I prefer it. The lights here are so harsh and scrutinizing. I like the darkness; it gives me an extra layer of protection from the terrifying things that fly around in my head and are supposed to come out of my mouth.
You think I’m here because I want to live. I think you tell yourself that because you want me to want to live. You asked me once to be aware of the times I felt like I wanted to stay alive, but you never ask me if I want to die. Current score – life: 1, death: 3.
Really, I’m here because there’s a mess on the floor in my head, and I don’t know how to clean it up. Bright, coloured pieces of broken glass are strewn about, a hazard to my already tattered feet. I tread lightly, careful not to re-injure. In here, with you, I know it has to hurt, but I try to keep the pain to a minimum. We talk, and I skate around on the glass, my feet wise enough to understand its nature and respect the warnings of the faint pink lines that appear on my skin.
But I get too comfortable, and I talk too quickly, and all of the sudden there’s a puncture, a jab of fear, and the control is leaking out of my body at a frightening rate. Sound the alarm.
You pick up on this and you ask me to breathe. I try, I focus, I try to focus, but I know I’ve gone too far and it’s toomuchtoomuch and the panic is setting in and the warning bells are going off to the tune of the Lacrimosa and all at once I’m up and gone and it’s a race against myself to the bathroom because the only thing that can stop this bleeding is blood.
My favourite stall is free and I lock myself in, tools out of my bag and on the window sill, blade corners tested between my index fingers and thumbs, and all the corners are dull from overuse but every atom in my body is localized at one spot on my arm and I press down on the blade and pull and the blade is dull and I carve again and thebladeisfuckingdull and I carve again and finally, blood, bright and red and beautiful, pools up from deep down, and it’s a perfect, impeccable little line and I stare and stare and it bubbles and grows and bursts and finally, finally, it’s enough.