I close my eyes and imagine the blade sinking into my arm. Not my wrist, my arm. I don’t want to die – I want to bleed. I want the thin, sharp blade to pierce the chubby, smooth, pale flesh of my arm and I want to watch as the line turns red, then forms tiny mounds of shiny crimson blood that get bigger and bigger… then when they can no longer withstand the gravity, slide down the side of my arm, tickling me with their relief.
These tiny streams take with them the darkness. Each drop falling onto the floor takes a minuscule pixel of the black that has invaded my spirit and carries it away, leaving behind a pinpoint of light.
But I can’t do it. All I can do is imagine it. Is it because I’m weak? Or is it because I know it won’t actually help, I only want it to? Perhaps it’s both.
I don’t know what’s worse – irrational anger or irrational sadness. Or maybe it’s the fact that they, so often, happen in tandem; my psyche like a metronome, clicking from angry to sad to angry to sad in a hellacious rhythm of torture.
What will it take to stop being gang-raped by these demons, my happiness violated repeatedly by these brutish thoughts and emotions. Feelings that are supposed to be therapeutic, cathartic – a form of release – are mutilated and used as a form of punishment. For what, I do not know.
It’s so fucked up because – are you ready for this? – I don’t know if I want it to stop. Sometimes I feel like I’m more myself than ever when I’m caught in this double team – feeling everything so acutely and deeply.
I almost don’t know how to enjoy smiling anymore. I used to feel joy as deeply as sorrow, but each time it returns it’s a little duller and a little less engulfing. The entire time it’s with me, I’m waiting for it to leave. It’s like attachment disorder – I’m scaring it away before it has a chance to leave me on its own.
I guess you already knew I’m fucked up. I’ve never kept that a secret. I wonder if there’s anything that will come as a surprise anymore – to me, or to anyone reading this.
Misery is my fucking security blanket, keeping me safe and warm in my despair. If I can’t beat it, I might as well learn to love it. Or at least try to make sense of these demons clawing at me.
Why do we always find ourselves drawn to the things we should not touch – to the things we should not have? Why do we repeatedly and defiantly make choices that cause us nothing but regret?
In my case, I think it’s a slow suicide. A way to wallow in my misery and take a few minutes, hours, days off my life at a time. It’s safer this way; reversible. I am a coward.
But I’m not afraid to take small steps, to endanger my life one calorie at a time. I get a little closer and closer to the sun until my wings melt and I fall. Then, in a flurry of regret, I rebuild them with vigor and positive self-talk – controlling my hunger and choosing the path farthest from the sun’s scorching rays.
But I get cold, and I get closer… and closer… until I fall again. One of these days, the fall is going to be fatal.