'The blunt kitchen knife who just lays in a submissive position beneath a national weight and the slow arc of a fist' triggered me into a stupor two nights ago. Something in it just pulled me into the narrative and I felt myself described in the harrowing 'pedestrian verse'. JJ lay beside me with his arm over my shoulder and immediately pulled me close when I turned off the song before the end of the first verse. "I just turn really fast sometimes" I told him. "I know" he replied. We tried to sleep. We tried to push the darkness out of arms reach but the stanley knife and scissors were merely a foot away. I reached out, I lined them up and I woke JJ. "You'd do anything for me, right?" "Of course." And with that I pulled his hand across my body and onto the tools. He sat up immediately and packed them into his bag. I tried not to know this. I didn't look and I tried not to hear or feel. He lay back down and held me. I stayed silent for a few moments before twisting around to watch his face. "I didn't use them. I gave them to you." "That's good."
The Skype call lasted 9 hours and 10 minutes last night, it was 8:50 am when he woke up and hung up. I wanted him back immediately. He was babysitting me, making sure I don't do anything stupid. Now I want to. I have the freedom to and I want to. I tried to explain it last night, as best I could, why the knife lives beside my bed. It's simply been here for me longer than anyone else. Very few people knew an unscarred me. Knives have been around a lot longer than most of my friends. They put a visual on the internal chaos. They take the shameful, awful mental illness and turn it into physical pain, even for the shortest time. It becomes a real problem to be seen and it means you're comfortable with how you're treated. You deserve it, you ask for it, you get it, you control it. When 'knife' or 'blade' cross your mind there is a moment of clarity, amongst all of the chaos of mental illness, that tells you that it's the right thing to do. "Tell me, though, is a little brief moment like that really all that worth the long-lasting discomfort of the marks it leaves? I really doubt it, even if you say yes now." It's the same with suicide, where the only decision that makes sense is the act. Sure, it seems destructive but not to someone in the tangled mind of depression. "What's wrong tonight? What's got you feeling so down?" What I wanted to say was
but instead I continued to blubber through the words, pleading that he hear my cries at all times. Not long after he tried to send me to sleep. I protested and we stayed awake long enough to chuckle at Peter Jackson's original cast considerations for the Lord of the Rings. When I woke up I still wanted to cut.
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