The scratches are numerous on my arm now; like notches in the belt of a manwhore counting his recent conquests. There’s no blood. I haven’t been able to bring myself to cut that deep. It’s just the surface, red and raised, with little flecks of skin sticking up like tiny stalagmites.
Counting these parallel lines is oddly comforting. Seeing these soldiers of my psychological battle lined up, ready to take the pain, makes me feel peaceful – like I have an army in my corner.
What a fucking load of shit. I know that, deep down. I know it’s a crock, that these scratches aren’t doing anything but hurting me, but who cares? No one; hence the scratches. It’s not that I find pleasure in the pain – it’s not some sort of masochism, providing sexual gratification. No, it’s not that at all. The pain feels good – because it stops. It’s the only pain that stops and I need that. I need to know that a pain exists that isn’t endless. I need to know there’s a reprieve.
There’s a remission with these scratches. The pain is instantaneous… then it’s gone, it’s over, and there’s relief. Relief. Pain to take away pain. Seems counterintuitive, doesn’t it? But then again… The treatment for cancer doesn’t exactly feel good.
Maybe that’s what this is; rudimentary chemotherapy for this cancer that is my depression, anxiety, and pain. The worse before it gets better.
Or maybe I’m just fucked up.