I keep imagining cutting.
Long, shallow gashes up my legs.
Short, deep wounds on my shoulders and arms.
Eventually the wounds get deep enough to bleed for ages, get long enough to be obscene. They get deeper than I’ve ever hurt myself before.
Cutting initials into my flesh, names, eventually scarfications. Pretty and petty patterns adorning my skin.
Eventually no normal tissue left to cut, so it leaves me to cut deeper into scars to feel that thrill, to feel the exhilaration, to feel the pain.
And the blood, the blood is the best part. Letting it drip, run, stain clothes and sheets, smearing it.
Everything I used to do, the drinking, the painkillers, the pot, the insignificant sex.
All of it. I want it all. But I am too cowardly to take it, too scared to let people down, too afraid of what people might think, say, expect.
It’s chanting in my head, you are worthless, you useless piece of shit, kill yourself, they will rejoice, they all want you dead, and I believe them, it. It is screaming at me, if pills can’t help, what will? If talking won’t help, shut up. If writing does nothing to help, off yourself.
What am I to do about it all, when nothing helps, when the meds only changes things for a while, but makes me gain weight like an idiot? How do I fight a battle against abhorrence for myself when my appearance is the last thing people think about when they try to get me better? It’s negligent of my therapist and doctor not to take that into account when assigning my dosage. How am I supposed to get better when they’ve only fueled my self hatred?
I haven’t always been this fat, this bitter, or this lonely.
There used to be people who woke up in the morning and the thought of me was the first thing that came up, people used to cancel plans to hang out with me.
Now people forget me easily, I can talk to someone one week and they’ve forgotten me the next. People cancel plans with me because they have friends that are better than me.
I am as insignificant as the men I’ve slept with, as the men I’ve let fuck me into the mattress. All I want is for one individual to notice me for what I’m worth. I’m not much, I’m not extraordinary in any way. I only ask someone close to home to realise that I’m existing.
I have enough friends on the Internet to last me a lifetime, and I am forever grateful to them, but I need someone at home who can like me for who I am when my defences are down. When I’ve built them bridges and vantage points so they can observe the cracks is the façade, see how I’m not as naïve as I seem, see the humour, the sarcasm and obsessions for what they really are.
I want someone I can laugh with till I cry, someone I can cry with till I laugh, someone I can live with till my death, someone I can die next to.
Someone who won’t judge, someone I can be myself around, someone I can easily call and they will throw themselves out of the door to get to me as soon as possible.
But people like that already have people they love unconditionally. People already have the best people in their lives, they don’t want to get to know new people that intimately because they already have people they love.
I have people I love, there are people I would kill for, but I don’t think they would do the same for me.
That hurts, it fucking hurts to know that people want nothing of me when there are better people around. I’m only a possibility when there are no one better.
I am the spare, the person to go to when you want something, when you have a secret you just must tell but don’t want to spread.
Who else to go to than the person who doesn’t have anyone to tell, who else to go to than the person who is so full of people’s mishaps and misfortunes and secrets they don’t know where theirs begin and others end?
Most of the time, I think about cutting because then no one can dismiss my sickness, no one can wave me away and say that I’m on meds and shouldn’t complain.
I want to destroy my flesh so people can understand how irrevocably torn up I am inside.
It kills me that people don’t get it, or when they pretend they understand just to be able to gossip about it to someone else.
I don’t understand anything of it, I just want people to listen, to help me laugh it off once it’s off my chest.
I want to be blunt with people but it’s not appreciated, and that kills me too.
Everything is killing me except me, and soon that won’t do.
That kills me too.
I keep imagining cutting.