THE LAST TIME

I did it to myself.

It had been a bad night and I was feeling lower than I had in years. It had been a long time since something like this has happened and, looking back, I regret it. I had been so good, so good. I really thought it was the real thing this time, that I had recovered and outgrown these urges. Clearly, I was wrong.

I picked up the small knife from the cutlery drawer. Nobody was here to stop me so I didn’t have to hide but, from force of habit I suppose, I went to my bedroom and shut the door. I sat on the bed, with the sheets still crumpled from last night’s sleep, and pulled up the edge of my shorts. I looked down and assessed where it was going to happen. Choosing a reasonably clear spot, I started.

I always feel incredibly stupid when I think about what I have done to my own body. It’s shameful to think of how I have treated myself. It’s hard to explain but I guess that’s why I’ll never be comfortable talking about it with other people. I don’t even like thinking about it to myself.

I started to cry – slow and silent tears, not sobs - as the pain seared through my thigh. It’s a relief to know that I can still feel something, even if it is pain. I repeat the action on my left leg and feel my heart rate slow as I bleed out the emptiness. I know the void will return before the wounds scab over but even a temporary relief is better than nothing at all.

It’s hard to explain such logic when I’m clear-headed. I can see that I am trapped in a cycle, a cycle I often think I have broken and then I am proven wrong. It’s like being an alcoholic that knows they have a problem but often relapse. It’s impulsive and I hate myself for being so weak. But I really can’t help it.

In the days that followed, I cut myself probably hundreds of time. Each day it took more pain to pull me from the blackness, from the emptiness inside. There is nothing worse than telling yourself that it’s over, it’s the last time this time. Especially when you know it’s a lie. I continued to wash my bloodstained sheets and body every time. Nobody was here to stop me anymore so I didn’t have to hide it but I did. I covered myself with jeans and jumpers. I suppose it’s easier to function if I can pretend I am okay. Even if I am pretending to only myself. I had moved out of my childhood home and become my own person. I never expected to be left alone like this but I wasn’t surprised; in fact, I was almost relieved. It was as if having nobody gave me the excuse I needed to give into the darkness and into the blade.

It seems nuts when I think that I was relieved to be alone. Other people are my crutch, my way of coping. I am a disaster when I am alone. I destroy myself and I destroy my livelihoods. There was nobody there to make me shower or get dressed or go outside. I just sit alone, doing nothing, feeling nothing.

I didn’t want to carry on living like this. This feeling isn’t living. I hate it. I hate myself. The only feeling that breaks the void is the anger I feel looking at my reflection. It’s so painful that I punched my mirror. My bloodied knuckles joined my bloodied thighs, shoulders, wrists… I was running out of skin I could cover. I was running out of patience. I stopped taking my medication. It wasn’t working anyway and I wanted to be myself when it happened. There was nothing worse than a foggy head from too many pills to put a dampener on plans. Everybody who ever tried to take me out knew this. Nobody expected me to be the life and soul of the party. If I was having too good a time, they took me to my GP and insisted that I had been knocked off balance again. I needed a change of meds, a stronger dose.

People who told me I needed new meds were always right. Not once did my loved ones take me to a doctor to be told that I was fine. I knew they would advise this and yet, I continued to self-destruct. My one sensible thought and I ignored it.

The rope was from the time I tried to make a swing for my nephew in the tree outside. My sister didn’t let him come stay, even though I had made all this effort. She thought I was off balance again. I got so mad, I pulled the whole thing down. I guess it’s going to come in handy now, though.

My sister was right. I wasn’t okay; I wish I had accepted that and reached out for help instead of ignoring her calls and cutting her off. I think that’s why she left me here alone; part of it at least.

I walked out to the tree, rope over my shoulder, torch in hand. I climbed to the thickest branch. It was about six feet up. I put the torch into the crook of the branch so that I could use both hands to tie it on. Straddling the tree branch, I felt peaceful. I knew I didn’t have long left here.

I wish I had fallen from the tree. I may have broken a bone but that would be nothing compared to where I am now. This is a regret I don’t think I can ever take back.

My neighbour left her house to put out the bins and looked up. I said hey and smiled down from the tree but she said nothing. She looked at me with fear in her eyes and ran back inside. I saw her through the window pacing the floor as if she was wrestling with a tough decision, but I didn’t really care. I was more focused on making my noose.

My parents sent me to Scouts as a child. I knew how to tie a slipknot before I could spell it. I wish they hadn’t, though I suppose that they couldn’t have predicted what I would use it for. My poor neighbour was an old woman and she shouldn’t have had to witness what I did next.

I put the rope over my head and pulled myself up, holding onto a branch above my head. I took one last look around and I jumped. The world slowed and I could see the twigs passing by my face, scratching my arm. I heard the scream of my neighbour and saw my own darkened windows flash by.