Memorable
Testimony
Today was another long, boring day. The rain pours down outside, drumming on my roof as if trying to burrow its way in. The gloomy skies match my mood. Today is a bad day, a day of unexplained hurt and sad thoughts, of tears that fall like my own mini rainstorm. So I slip in recollections of sorrow, as if I can distract myself from the sharp pain of right now.
This memory is dark. Really it is little clips of memories all smashed together. I see a collage of tile floors and red and a needle that is halfway coated in blood. As I sink farther down, my scars tingle as I remember how they were made. A knife across the back of my wrist, safety pins digging deep into my fingertips, scissors to my knuckles and palm. And the hidden scars come alive too. The inside crease of my thigh, marked with a jagged red line, little angry dots on the back of my neck. The inside of my lips, under my fingernails, the soles of my feet, all pricked with pins until small drops of crimson appear like the stars in some fiery constellation. Midnights spent locked in the bathroom, early mornings of curling up in dark corners. Tears that fall silently down my face. A fearful look in the eyes of my friends, anger in my father, tears from my mother. And many people who are oblivious, who must see the scars but who don't notice why they are there.
I feel the sudden overwhelming urge to help myself with physical pain, not just the remembrance of it. A light flicks on, then off, behind the dark blue curtains in my room. I crawl into bed, a needle already sticking into the side of my wrist. A deep sigh eases out of me. This is my drug, my addiction, my hope. It is also the source of lots of tears and pain and disappointment and regret. So much regret. I have to look at my arm every day and see what I've done. Every time I wash my hands, read, write, dance, work, I must see the scars. They are silent testimony of my pain.
This memory is dark. Really it is little clips of memories all smashed together. I see a collage of tile floors and red and a needle that is halfway coated in blood. As I sink farther down, my scars tingle as I remember how they were made. A knife across the back of my wrist, safety pins digging deep into my fingertips, scissors to my knuckles and palm. And the hidden scars come alive too. The inside crease of my thigh, marked with a jagged red line, little angry dots on the back of my neck. The inside of my lips, under my fingernails, the soles of my feet, all pricked with pins until small drops of crimson appear like the stars in some fiery constellation. Midnights spent locked in the bathroom, early mornings of curling up in dark corners. Tears that fall silently down my face. A fearful look in the eyes of my friends, anger in my father, tears from my mother. And many people who are oblivious, who must see the scars but who don't notice why they are there.
I feel the sudden overwhelming urge to help myself with physical pain, not just the remembrance of it. A light flicks on, then off, behind the dark blue curtains in my room. I crawl into bed, a needle already sticking into the side of my wrist. A deep sigh eases out of me. This is my drug, my addiction, my hope. It is also the source of lots of tears and pain and disappointment and regret. So much regret. I have to look at my arm every day and see what I've done. Every time I wash my hands, read, write, dance, work, I must see the scars. They are silent testimony of my pain.