It’s 3am, the world is gone.
There’s no one left. Everyone dropped away hours ago, falling asleep and warm and tucked away.
Not me. I am up. There are a million flies buzzing in my head.
I tried everything to stop them. I tried humming to someone who I wish were here. I tried talking to her, out loud, laying there and staring at the ceiling.
I tried saying no, tried distraction, tried doing things I like. Tried drawing and writing. Tried pleasure over pain. Tried and failed on everything. But nothing works.
It all comes down to a glint of metal in the dark, skin breaking over the metal, pain flooding my skin and running down my arm.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6.
Just six. Only six.
They bleed slowly at first, sliding down at snail’s pace, then they are gushing. Flooding and dripping all over everything, blinding red.
I don’t want to listen to the voice in my mind telling me how lovely this is. How the first razor stroke barely leaves a mark, just this tiny red line, then again and again and again and by the 30th slash the skin there is gaping, showing pieces of the inside.
For a minute, you’re a surgeon. Totally in control of yourself and your body. It is at your mercy, wilting under your touch like flowers in the heat. You forgot what you were trying to remove from you, what you wanted to take out, but you’re caught up in the anatomy of it all.
The epidermis, dermis, hypodermis. White adipose, subcutaneous fat. Muscle, tendons, nerves, bone. You see that you’re cutting through all the skin, see the fat separate and show muscle, see the nervous twitch of a tendon or vein and wonder what the point is in avoiding them.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6.
But I want more even after there‘s no deeper to go. I want the blood to run and flood and put my blinders on so I see nothing else.
When you’re in pain, little else matters. owfuckthathurts. shitouchouchouch. That’s all you can think and hear, besides that buzzing of a million flies’ wings against the inside of your skull.
You don’t think of the stupid things you said. You don’t think of how you could’ve eaten less or more or better. You don’t think about how fucking ugly you are, how fat, what a burden you are, what a failure and disappointment you have become. You don’t think about how you’ve become one of the ‘bad kids’ your Mom warned you about. How everything you touch withers, reverse Midas curse.
All that matters is that pain. While it’s happening, it really is hard to imagine that this is bad. The stopstopstopstop voice gives away after the first cut. You’re this total monster, ripping your skin to shreds because you really fucking need to.
6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.
The crash in the morning is the worst. It usually happens in morning, because you do ‘it’ at night.
In the morning you open your eyes and feel sick. Your stomach is churning bitterly because you licked blood off your skin, this giant fucking puddle sitting around inside of you on an empty stomach.
For a few minutes, those lovely ignorant minutes before the high turns into a low, you can’t remember why you feel so shitty and detached and ill. Then you look down, see the red dried on your hands, see the ripped pieces of cloth around you, see the razorblade, see the blood you got all over the place. It’s obvious what you did, you fuckup.
At first, you think ididn’tdothis. Of course you did, sweetheart, who else would have?
There’s no one left. Everyone dropped away hours ago, falling asleep and warm and tucked away.
Not me. I am up. There are a million flies buzzing in my head.
I tried everything to stop them. I tried humming to someone who I wish were here. I tried talking to her, out loud, laying there and staring at the ceiling.
I tried saying no, tried distraction, tried doing things I like. Tried drawing and writing. Tried pleasure over pain. Tried and failed on everything. But nothing works.
It all comes down to a glint of metal in the dark, skin breaking over the metal, pain flooding my skin and running down my arm.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6.
Just six. Only six.
They bleed slowly at first, sliding down at snail’s pace, then they are gushing. Flooding and dripping all over everything, blinding red.
I don’t want to listen to the voice in my mind telling me how lovely this is. How the first razor stroke barely leaves a mark, just this tiny red line, then again and again and again and by the 30th slash the skin there is gaping, showing pieces of the inside.
For a minute, you’re a surgeon. Totally in control of yourself and your body. It is at your mercy, wilting under your touch like flowers in the heat. You forgot what you were trying to remove from you, what you wanted to take out, but you’re caught up in the anatomy of it all.
The epidermis, dermis, hypodermis. White adipose, subcutaneous fat. Muscle, tendons, nerves, bone. You see that you’re cutting through all the skin, see the fat separate and show muscle, see the nervous twitch of a tendon or vein and wonder what the point is in avoiding them.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6.
But I want more even after there‘s no deeper to go. I want the blood to run and flood and put my blinders on so I see nothing else.
When you’re in pain, little else matters. owfuckthathurts. shitouchouchouch. That’s all you can think and hear, besides that buzzing of a million flies’ wings against the inside of your skull.
You don’t think of the stupid things you said. You don’t think of how you could’ve eaten less or more or better. You don’t think about how fucking ugly you are, how fat, what a burden you are, what a failure and disappointment you have become. You don’t think about how you’ve become one of the ‘bad kids’ your Mom warned you about. How everything you touch withers, reverse Midas curse.
All that matters is that pain. While it’s happening, it really is hard to imagine that this is bad. The stopstopstopstop voice gives away after the first cut. You’re this total monster, ripping your skin to shreds because you really fucking need to.
6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.
The crash in the morning is the worst. It usually happens in morning, because you do ‘it’ at night.
In the morning you open your eyes and feel sick. Your stomach is churning bitterly because you licked blood off your skin, this giant fucking puddle sitting around inside of you on an empty stomach.
For a few minutes, those lovely ignorant minutes before the high turns into a low, you can’t remember why you feel so shitty and detached and ill. Then you look down, see the red dried on your hands, see the ripped pieces of cloth around you, see the razorblade, see the blood you got all over the place. It’s obvious what you did, you fuckup.
At first, you think ididn’tdothis. Of course you did, sweetheart, who else would have?
I just have to say, that, like...perfectly echoes what it's like for me.
ReplyDeleteAnd I love you <3 hughughug. I'm proud of you for trying. <3