It was calling for me. My best friend and my worst enemy. I’m tired of struggling. I’m tired of losing the impulsive and self destructive battles with it. I couldn’t handle it screaming my name. “Trevor, Trevor, TREVOR!” It finds me almost every night when I am alone and and most vulnerable.
Every single ounce of my body is wanting to run to it. To cave in, to give up and, to feed it. How couldn’t I give into it’s power? I love it. The tears start creeping into my eyes and begin to distort my vision. I could only see the faint outline of the objects in front of me. But I knew where it was, I did not need to see to it to find it. I am connected to it and it controls me. It was near, how could such a tiny object have so much power?
As I moved my history book, I saw the faint silver rectangle. When I was reaching for it, a tear rolled down my cheek. I stopped myself but only for a second then continued to my addiction. I picked it up and held in my hands. I held it so tight and close, I couldn’t let go. I knew I should’ve put it down but in that moment all I could think about was how much I needed it and how much it needed me.
I felt like I was set on autopilot, I'd been here so many times before and I knew exactly what it wanted me to do. With every step I took while holding the blade I sensed the soft carpet under my feet. The longer I held my enemy in my hand the less I could control my rational thoughts. I was numb I couldn't feel anything and then I knew it was time.
‘Click’ went my bathroom light switch. At that point tears were rolling down my cheeks and I still didn’t given my situation a second thought. My eyes didn’t even react to the brightness of the lights. I was too focused on my own self destruction, I was driven by its force. I did not want to do this; I really didn’t, but I did because I needed too. When I stared in my bathroom mirror, I saw a broken, unlovable boy who was captivated by a tiny but dominant blade. At that very moment I looked away, I hated seeing him, I was disgusted and disappointed in him once again.
I instantly went into robot-mode, my neck tilted downward looking at left arm and my right hand closed tightly in a fist that was supporting the blade. Once again I glanced at him in the mirror but this time it was only for reassurance. I knew what he was feeling. I knew what he would’ve said to me. Why didn’t I listen? I could only hear the silver rectangle yelling at me. I quickly looked away from him and then I slowly opened my right hand exposing my master of self destruction. The blade shifted in between my thumb and my index finger. Holding my breath I held it to my left forearm. Applying pressure, I dragged for the same amount of time as I exhaled. Feeling my skin pop and split open from side to side. For a moment I saw a thick white rut in my arm. Blood came rushing in, overflowing the deep gash. ‘Drip’ ‘Drop’ ‘Drip’ the blood dripping into my sink. My gash stings, but I can’t complain because I did this to myself. Oh how I have missed this feeling. This relief of sensation, almost as if I were high on drugs. It felt as big as if an was elephant being lifted off of my shoulders. I craved more, I wanted more, I needed more.
This became my obsession, the only thing I could focus on. My mind became a tunnel, with every gash the closer I got to the light at the end. Deeper, longer, wider and more blood. Again I took a long over exaggerated breathe. I stopped for a moment to prepare myself and to savor the feeling. I pushed down hard and exhaled for as long as possible, because I needed as much as possible. I dropped the blade, ‘ching’, it hit the floor. Blood came rushing to the forefront and began dripping off my arm into my sink ‘drip’ ‘drop’ drip’. I looked up and stared at that broken, unlovable boy again. This time he was even more broken. Every time I cave in, every time I give in, and every time I let it control me he breaks a little more. I could not apologize to the broken boy because he was me and I was him. Realizing what I had done my knees buckled and I collapsed to my floor. I was not focused on the blood profusely running down my arm, instead I became indulged by guilt. All I could do was cry and soon my cries turned into screams. Covering my eyes with both hands the blood became diluted by my own tears. Both dripping on to the floor. When I finally got my uncontrollable wailing under control I uncovered my eyes and slowly rose from my bathroom floor. Still looking at the blood on the floor I wiped the tears from my cheeks; sniffling like when a kid scraps their knee but can’t cry. I turned to my left so I could see the mirror and there was the broken, unlovable boy again. Right where I saw him last. This time he was a little more broken, I knew what did this to him. Not the self destructive behaviors he performed on himself but what the self destruction brought upon him. I could see it in his eyes. His swollen, watery, bloodshot brown eyes. I could see the guilt and shame in his eyes. I look down at his wrist and stared at it for awhile. I wasn’t shocked because I had the same red stained wrist as him. The guilt started to consume me. The shame started to devour my sanity. I collapsed and laid down on my back staring at the ceiling. Still crying, the lukewarm liquid running from my forearm did not intrigue me anymore. The high was gone and so was its control over me. The gashes still stung but did not sting as bad as the shame I felt on the inside.