Everything's Fine

This isn’t a story; this isn’t made up or exaggerated. This isn’t happy or joyous, but it is hopeful. Sitting here on the cold bathroom floor staring numbly at the old blood dried into the cracks of the tiles I wonder, why me? Why not me? Twirling the silver blade in my fingers I wonder why I can’t stop. Why do I do it. Fighting the darkness of my thoughts, feeling so much shame, guilt and embarrassment I question why I can’t stop. Finally, I can hold back no longer and with trembling tear-stained hands a new red line is created amongst the crisscrossing shades of pink purple and red. Suddenly I feel like I’m back, present.

From the outside, more than anything depression is undignified, uncontrollable break downs, telling strangers your secrets, the moments you want to keep buried forever. You feel so vulnerable. That makes you feel worse.

Now more in the moment I have the presence of mind to grab the clean hand towel to try and stop the bleeding. Hobbling down the hallway I collapse onto the bed wondering what to do next. Once My partner gets home its to the hospital for glue, tape and more indignity. For the next week I’m ok, I manage, until I don’t. Until I rip the wound open again. My nearly zombified form graces the hospital once again, but there is no doctor on staff. The best they can do Is half measures until I can go to the clinic the next day.

At this stage my razor and blades are gone, If I want to shave my legs I have to do it with the electric razor. More indignities. They only continue when I see the doctor, skirt hiked up to my knickers awkwardly explaining what happened. I must go back the next day for the wound to be scrubbed and stitched. He gives me a script for Valium, in his words “it’s better than the alternative”. The next day the wound is cleaned and stitched, I’m repaired but I still feel so broken. I still have the urge to try and cut out the darkness inside me, to remove the part of me that’s so damaged. I can’t let it go. Instead, I take a Valium.

I sleep. With sleep comes nightmares, night terrors, screaming out in the darkness, fighting enemies who aren’t there. I take a Valium. Then I don’t sleep. With the lack of sleep comes hallucinations, mania. I take a Valium.

Days go by, the battle inside me invisible to those around me. The urge to cut out my Imperfections, my failures returns. I take a Valium. I try to do the things that my friends and family tell me I enjoy, I write, draw, make music. My writing is garbage, the drawings look wrong, my music sounds terrible. The urge to cut out what’s holding me back, what makes me less than comes back. I take a Valium.

I care for my daughter, cook her dinner, read her stories, get her ready for school. I’m impatient with her, the meal I make is lazy, I can’t do the voices right in her story, I can’t do her hair how she wants for school. The urge to cut out my failings as a mother, my laziness comes back. I take a Valium.

Life continues to pass in a familiar pattern. The feelings never leave, they get darker. I don’t take a Valium. Instead, I find where the blades have been carefully hidden. Once again I’m on the cold bathroom floor, blade in hand I want to stop myself but it’s too late to turn back now. This time instead of adding a line to the collection on my thighs I take to my wrist. Blood starts to flow from next to my fox. Tattooed so beautifully on my wrist, such a shame. Suddenly there are strong arms around me, pulling me up. Pushing a cloth to my wrist, tearfully telling me to hold it there. The next thing I know I’m in bed, my partner checking my wound. “The bleeding seems to have stopped, I will wrap it up and keep an eye on it”. A glass of water and some pills are then pushed into my hands, I took my Valium. More indignity. I slept.

The next day I take a shower and remove my bandage, my wrist starts bleeding again, I feel nothing. I begrudgingly grab a washer and hold pressure. I’m not going back to the hospital or the clinic to be judged. Once the bleeding stops, I examine my wrist. The cut missed my tattoo skimming the bottom edge of a delicately inked flower underneath my fox. I sigh in relief, then realize my own bizarre thinking. My tattoo more important to me than my own wellbeing. I tape the wound shut and bandage my wrist again.

Time passes, my wrist heals, my head does not. A pattern begins to form, a week or two of sleep, then no sleep, dark thoughts then Valium. Over and over this pattern repeats, almost a ritual. Through the panic, pain and chaos, the predictability and pattern comfort me. I know what comes next at any point. My world closing in. Insecure dark, safe. I know the demons I’m facing, I know when they arrive. Monsters no one else can see, but I know how to fight. I take a Valium.

But somehow, I feel empty, I feel like an impostor in my skin, like this isn’t right. I take a Valium.

I realise something has to give, I have to give something up. In my head the answer seems obvious. Why give up my vices when I can give up my life. My heart screams through the pain, the sadness that that’s not right. I know what I need to give up, I just don’t know if I have the strength to do it.

I walk around my house finding the blades hidden and stashed away from me and with everything I have in me I throw them away. I break down and cry feeling nothing but endless despair. I sit weeping in front of a bin, undignified. I know I must stop, give it up. I take a Valium.

I take a Valium.

I take a Valium.