To Heal, to Hurt, to Fight
Prologue
It’s the blood.
Shaking hands holding a fresh-out-of-the-box razor blade, tears’ streaming down my cheeks, and it’s not even about the pain anymore. It’s the blood.
It doesn’t matter how long I can go without it – without my fix – I will always be dragged back down into the self hating pool of blood. Drowning, weeping, screaming. Vision red, hands sticky, and it’s the blood.
The blood is my escape.
I can lie to myself and say I’m okay. I can do it for months at a time, for years, even. But it’s the blood that calls me. Taunts me. Pleads for release.
That’s why I’m here. Again. Sitting in my bathroom, staring down at my weeping thighs, numb. I don’t know why I do it, but I run my hand across the gashes, and bring it up, palm facing me, and stare. Stare as the blood clings to my hand, like a victim in a horror film.
But I’m not in a horror film. I’m alive. I’m in my bathroom. And I’m not a victim – I’m doing this to myself. Again, and again.
When the blood stops flowing, I scratch at the cuts. I claw at them until I feel skin tear away under my fingernails. Until I cant take it anymore and grab the blade again to make new wounds. There’s no clean skin, there’s no safe space. There’s no room. But I make room. I make shapes. And words.
A heart.
A star.
Alone.
Lost.
Fear.
Hated.
I bleed away the pain.
And then I get in the shower, and I wash it all away. I watch the blood go down the drain, wash down my legs in mystifying rivers of red. Waterfalls of life lost. Dreams never dreamt. Monsters and demons sent away before their time. And, if I feel levelheaded, if the faint, lightheaded misery doesn’t reach me, doesn’t cloud my vision and mind, I grab the blade again. And I carve into my skin with a manic glee.
And then I laugh. Because there’s so much blood, and it’s free. I’m free. I feel nothing but the endorphins rushing through my mind. Nothing but the stinging of the water against my thighs. I see nothing but red. Everywhere I look.
Somehow my blood has splashed on the walls of my shower. Somehow I have bled everywhere. I know I’ll have to clean it before anyone sees, but in this moment, right here right now, it’s glorious.
It’s beautiful. And finally, finally I’ve stopped crying. I’m dizzy. The blood flow is lightening, and I could cry, but I don’t need to. I washed away everything that tore me apart from the inside. My demons have gone down the drain, following my salvation.
My thighs stop bleeding. But I continue standing here, just staring down at my fresh wounds; my proof of life. Because if I’m not hurting, I’m not living. I wash the razor, set it in its hiding place, and I go to my room.
Sit down.
It stings. There’s regret, and shame. But the image of my bloodied hands sticks in my mind. Reminds me why I have to do this, why it’s okay even if nobody will ever understand. Will ever know. I cry again. But it’s from relief.
Not because I’m screaming inside. Not because the voices that I cant quite hear are telling me that I’m alone, that nobody could ever love me. Not because I’m so fucking numb I can’t breathe and it hurts to feel nothing. Not because I want to bash my head against the wall until there is nothing left – wall or mind. Not out of fear. Or out of pain.
But because this is my release. This is my savior. My secret.
I fall asleep peacefully. And I awake the next day, refreshed, alive.
It doesn’t last forever, but I know my razor will be there when I need it. Because unlike people, unlike anything else in my life, my razor, my little moments of selfish bliss, are the only constant.
This is what keeps me alive.
It’s the blood.
Shaking hands holding a fresh-out-of-the-box razor blade, tears’ streaming down my cheeks, and it’s not even about the pain anymore. It’s the blood.
It doesn’t matter how long I can go without it – without my fix – I will always be dragged back down into the self hating pool of blood. Drowning, weeping, screaming. Vision red, hands sticky, and it’s the blood.
The blood is my escape.
I can lie to myself and say I’m okay. I can do it for months at a time, for years, even. But it’s the blood that calls me. Taunts me. Pleads for release.
That’s why I’m here. Again. Sitting in my bathroom, staring down at my weeping thighs, numb. I don’t know why I do it, but I run my hand across the gashes, and bring it up, palm facing me, and stare. Stare as the blood clings to my hand, like a victim in a horror film.
But I’m not in a horror film. I’m alive. I’m in my bathroom. And I’m not a victim – I’m doing this to myself. Again, and again.
When the blood stops flowing, I scratch at the cuts. I claw at them until I feel skin tear away under my fingernails. Until I cant take it anymore and grab the blade again to make new wounds. There’s no clean skin, there’s no safe space. There’s no room. But I make room. I make shapes. And words.
A heart.
A star.
Alone.
Lost.
Fear.
Hated.
I bleed away the pain.
And then I get in the shower, and I wash it all away. I watch the blood go down the drain, wash down my legs in mystifying rivers of red. Waterfalls of life lost. Dreams never dreamt. Monsters and demons sent away before their time. And, if I feel levelheaded, if the faint, lightheaded misery doesn’t reach me, doesn’t cloud my vision and mind, I grab the blade again. And I carve into my skin with a manic glee.
And then I laugh. Because there’s so much blood, and it’s free. I’m free. I feel nothing but the endorphins rushing through my mind. Nothing but the stinging of the water against my thighs. I see nothing but red. Everywhere I look.
Somehow my blood has splashed on the walls of my shower. Somehow I have bled everywhere. I know I’ll have to clean it before anyone sees, but in this moment, right here right now, it’s glorious.
It’s beautiful. And finally, finally I’ve stopped crying. I’m dizzy. The blood flow is lightening, and I could cry, but I don’t need to. I washed away everything that tore me apart from the inside. My demons have gone down the drain, following my salvation.
My thighs stop bleeding. But I continue standing here, just staring down at my fresh wounds; my proof of life. Because if I’m not hurting, I’m not living. I wash the razor, set it in its hiding place, and I go to my room.
Sit down.
It stings. There’s regret, and shame. But the image of my bloodied hands sticks in my mind. Reminds me why I have to do this, why it’s okay even if nobody will ever understand. Will ever know. I cry again. But it’s from relief.
Not because I’m screaming inside. Not because the voices that I cant quite hear are telling me that I’m alone, that nobody could ever love me. Not because I’m so fucking numb I can’t breathe and it hurts to feel nothing. Not because I want to bash my head against the wall until there is nothing left – wall or mind. Not out of fear. Or out of pain.
But because this is my release. This is my savior. My secret.
I fall asleep peacefully. And I awake the next day, refreshed, alive.
It doesn’t last forever, but I know my razor will be there when I need it. Because unlike people, unlike anything else in my life, my razor, my little moments of selfish bliss, are the only constant.
This is what keeps me alive.
It’s the blood.