Trigger Warning

NOTE: Trigger Warning seemed an apt title for this piece, particularly because it's written with a first-person perspective. The main character is suffering from mental illness, depression, and turns to self-harm as a means of respite. Though the descriptions are at times graphic, this piece contains no severe injury or death.

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There are days whose only purpose is to remind me of how alone I really am. I feel myself withdraw from the world; my senses disconnecting one by one until I disappear into near silence, though my mind hums its unchecked idiot drone, a recitation of the many mistakes I’ve made in my life. The bathroom isn’t large. It holds a basin, a bath, and of course, a toilet. This is where I sat on its closed, unyielding white lid while my eyes drifted out of focus and transformed the gaudy pink flowers of the hated wallpaper into a wash of meaningless pastel. In a moment, there is nothing left but the thin, flexible blade squeezed between my fingertips and the willing white flesh of my thigh, ready for the sweet and inevitable kiss of the shattered razor.

This blade was not mine. If my many visible scars had not convinced my family I might be better off without sharp things around to tempt me, my dispassionate retelling of how the scars first came to be certainly did the trick. When I reassured them that the act of cutting caused me no pain, their wide eyes filled with more fear and less understanding than ever before. I never attempted to explain my peculiar process again.

When I feel something tickle my lower lashes and run down my cheek, I wipe away the wetness with the back of one hand. Tears are a thing of self-pity and worthy of nothing but abomination. I refuse them and they go, for the most part. They are unwanted, disgraceful, and only serve to remind me of past abuse from my peers and the humiliation of failure. The thoughts remain, a dark clarion call reverberating in a prison of meat and bone. I hear them and listen as they beckon.

They say family. They say love. They seem very far away and are dismissed by the stronger urge that draws me in. A droplet of blood whispers down my trembling index finger, but I only tighten my grip. More blood will come, and it is welcome. I catch more desperate messages from the whining thing in my head, but this voice is composed of guilt. My old frenemy visits frequently; it wants to settle in and make itself at home. And really, why not? It’s always there, anyway, lurking just behind the veil.

It reminds me I am not good enough, not kind enough, undeserving of recognition or the few who have chosen to include me in their lives. It says I am not capable of the strength or perseverance to follow through with anything, not even a simple action such as drawing the blade through a places that would matter. For a fleeting moment, I can tell I need help. But needing and wanting are entirely different states of mind, and the razor blade bites deep into my thigh, almost of its own accord. I draw it down in a long sweeping line and watch the wound’s lips part as they release more of the hypnotic ruby liquid that pulls me into its world.

The sensation is bliss. The oozing red trails hold me there, fixated on their straight and unerring paths as gravity pulls each drop down to the cool tiled surface below. They leave their thick port-wine spatter on the slick white ceramic and are things of exquisite beauty, so perfect it is hard to believe they were ever a part of me. Something inside me wants to coat the white purity with the essence of my being, these cells that existed before my brain was well-formed enough to give them any true meaning or purpose.

But guilt speaks again, this time not of the hypothetical empty spaces I might leave in the lives of others, only practical concerns. I will be another mess for someone to clean up, create stained rugs and old rusty marks in the chipped grout no one will want to consider, my body an empty shell to be hauled away and disposed of in whichever way will give my family some sense of closure. I want to leave no trace of my passing. If only it could all be carried off into the darkness along with the things which, on a better day, sometimes bring happiness. Joy is the opposite of guilt and does not make itself heard often or remain for long. I realize there is something in me that loves the darkness, the pain, the solitude, and its voice is bleak music that is the soundtrack of my life. Has it always been this way?

I can recount stories of long-ago pleasures, brief moments when I felt capable of connecting to the peace, memories, and vitality of others. When I speak of these, I see how gratified others are to be remembered in that positive light. Reflecting on my own accomplishments is always accompanied by a sense of shame, that self-indulgence again, my hubris unwarranted and false. Feeling good about myself, even for a moment, seems needy. A weakness. If people saw this me, they would run away as quickly as the bloody drops falling to the floor. This is both my fear and resignation.

Once again, I understand I will not call for their assistance because I am not deserving of their kindness or pity. Self-harm without completion is seen as a cry for help, and at this moment, I want none. I brought this on myself and must cope with the aftermath alone. Failure, my mind says again, and I accept its truth. You’re not even interesting enough to go through with this. You bring nothing but pain, and they will believe they have failed you. As if they could.

We all have shared experiences, and to believe mine are any different is simple ego and a desire to see myself as someone special. It is this shame more than anything else that spurs me to bind my wounds and remove all visible traces of my pitiful time of weakness. Death wanted me tonight and I didn’t say no. I said not yet.

I conceal my tools of self-destruction once more and go out to face my small corner of the world. No one questions where I have been, and I do not enlighten them. There is always tomorrow, or the next day, on and on until the choice is no longer mine. I reconnect with the outer world long enough to turn my eyes to the screen while the din in my mind grows ever louder. With company beside me or not, isolation permeates me to the core.