WARNING: The following story contains graphic writing and photos that may trigger compulsions of cutting in some individuals. Please note that I do not condone my behavior nor am I an advocate for it.
The Big Let Down
I
am currently laying on my couch with a paper towel pressed against my leg. That’s right reader, this story is
present. Welcome to my world. Let us recap.
Although
it has been three years since the last time, I still keep a discarded
razorblade in the back of my bathroom drawer, hidden away from the view of
anyone who might be looking. Afraid in
my own house…really?
I
had prepped for this; I slowly walked up the stairs contemplating the act I had
planned. I grabbed the hidden razor and a tweezers from the upper left drawer
of the vanity and the box of tissue to the right of the sink basin. Walking back down the stairs equivocated to
walking the plank on a pirate ship. I
set the razor and tweezers on the left cushion of my bright red sofa; the box
of tissue on the table in front. As I
sat, I scolded myself for forgetting the most important thing…WINE!
I
made my way to the kitchen and poured a full glass of Chardonnay from the
classy box on the bottom shelf, topped it with an ice cube, and grinned like a
leprechaun as I made my way back to the sofa.
GO TIME.
I
examined the bright red Bic razor and fathomed removing the top from the
stem. A simple twist of the head and it
was off. And I imbibed a gulp of wine.
I
hesitated as I reached for the tweezers.
Once the blade comes out, there is no stopping the beast that will
inevitably take over. Hesitation didn’t
last long. I had made up my mind in the
short trip up the stairs and into the bathroom.
After this many years I have learned that if it is prepped for, it will
be done.
PISSED. The fucking blade wouldn’t pop easily of the
casing. The side casings holding the
blades in appeared to be glued. Thanks
Bic. Bastards.
When
this happens, I worry about the risk of bending the blades, but reminisced the
fact that all I needed was one.
Carefully, I popped the enclosing sides of the razor off with the
tweezers. The blades loosened. Meticulously, I grabbed the middle blade with
my tweezers and slid it out with ease.
The
feeling was everything I remembered and more.
As I slid the blade across my skin, the release of endorphins empowered
me. Cut after cut, I found my solace.
About
10 seconds after each cut, each incision began to pool blood on my leg. Excited,
I kept with my rhythm. Thirty plus lines
later, the blood began to drip down my leg.
It was time to stop.
Photo:
Let there be Blood.
Another
gulp of wine later, I reached for the box of tissues. I pulled one out and dropped it upon my
leg. I relished as the blood rapidly
seeped through the 2-ply tissue. The
second one I applied did the same thing.
It was like watching live art.
Four
tissues later, I realized that the thinness of the 2-ply wasn’t going to be
enough. I could still feel the blood
rolling down my thigh.
I
sauntered into the kitchen and grabbed a clean washrag from the top drawer to
the right of the refrigerator. I pressed
it firmly on my thigh and made my way back to the couch.
Once
the blood began to form clots, it was time to clean my wound. (And if you are asking yourself right now why
I would clean a wound that I had just inflicted on myself, the answer is
because I didn’t want to inflict an infection.
I am quite content with the pain I have inflicted and know it is not
smart to let an infection set in)
I
rinsed the rag out in the bathroom sink.
The red water created a magical stream into the drain. I wiped my leg
with the rag and went back downstairs to resume watching TV…and drinking wine.
Photo:
All Cleaned Up
Welcome
back to present time where I am still laying on my couch with a paper towel over
my wound. I am exhausted, spent, and
angry. Three years and here I am back at
square one. Even through all the anger I
feel toward myself at this very moment, I think the saddest thing is thinking
about how it will feel tomorrow having my jeans rubbing against my fresh cuts
and reopening them. The thought excites
me and for that, I remain afraid. Afraid
of myself and what I am capable of.
Afraid that I will relapse again.
Afraid of just being me.
-M
