Battle wounds

Just as I continually stockpile pills "just in case", typically I don't enter the hospital without bringing an out for myself. To date, no one has ever found the razor blade I smuggle in every time, despite the body and belonging checks. It's hidden in a place that no one ever even thinks to check and I'm not about to reveal it, will only say that it is never on (nor hidden in) my person.

This stay was the first time I've actually pulled it out and used it. This past Sunday was a particularly hard day for me, though I'm not quite sure why. I was calm in the morning following an evening full of laughs. As soon as I went back to my room after the first group of the day though, I lost it. An overwhelming sense of defeat, grief, hurt and numerous other emotions washed over me. I began to cry with an intensity I have not experienced in years.

Cried for hours despite the staff coming in trying to calm me and getting me to talk about what was bothering me. How do you answer that question when you haven't a clue? There was no trigger. No one said anything that made me upset. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened in group. It was more of a cathartic cleansing of pain that had been accumulating for so long. I just couldn't hold it all in any longer.

Things got so bad the thoughts of suicide returned. I thought of calling my younger sister and telling her that whatever happens, to make sure that my daughter was looked after. That she should make sure the hospital is sued for failing to do its job, keeping me safe. I could easily have slashed my wrists while in bed, thrown the covers over me and they would have found nothing but a corpse in the morning.

Instead I chose to simply cut. To help in the release of the mental anguish still pouring out through my tears. Thought if I bled too, it would tire me out quicker than crying alone and I could eventually just collapse into bed, alive but drained of the hurt inside.

I wasn't paying attention and cut more deeply than I had wanted. I panicked when the blood wouldn't stop flowing. Tried applying pressure to help in the clotting, but even that didn't work. Eventually the flow slowed to a trickle and I knew I had better get out of the bathroom before they began to question why I was in there so long. Flushed all the blood soaked toilet paper, threw on my pj's and climbed into bed.

When I woke Monday morning my pj's, pillow, sheets and blanket all had massive blood stains on them. I was able to get rid of all the evidence by changing my sheets and doing laundry without anyone knowing. Given the severity of the cuts, I think I should have sought medical attention, but wasn't able to tell anyone for fear of what retribution I would have received.

Now I have these wounds that aren't healing well. Two of the cuts are so deep that the skin is pulled apart, like a crevice in the earth, certain to leave more scars. I'm not ashamed of cutting like many people are. Each mark is a battle wound. Either upon my death or upon my reaching wellness, these scars will prove I didn't give up without a fight.