I only drove three miles down the street. Then I parallel parked between two mini vans. I cradled this pain. At least I could feel that. At least it was better then nothing. I could hear my phone vibrating from phone calls as I watched the sun rise. I did not pick it up. I would not pick it up. I couldn’t bare to hear his voice. I deleted the voice mails before I listened to him and leaned my seat back all the way.
I rolled up my sleeves up and dug in my purse for a pen. Then I wrote on my arms again. Again. Gone. Love. Again. Gone. Love. Again. Gone. Love.
I stopped and stared at my artwork. I drew long thin line against my veins. Then I licked my hand and rubbed it against the ink on my arm; making it smear. The red ink could be mistaken for blood. But it wasn’t blood, and there was no pain. And I felt better. I felt okay. I did believe I was going to get better.
I picked up my phone again and looked at the fifteen text messages I had received. I did not open them. I could not open them yet. I stepped out of my car and decided to walk the 20 blocks to my house.
I know I m crazy. That is the whole problem. But there is just something about walking after you feel freed. After you’ve broken so beautifully that you’re brand new. That’s what I was. I was brand fucking new.
When I finally got to my big red door I dug my keys from my back pocket but my hand touched the smooth screen of my cell phone first. I pulled it out and opened up my inbox. All of them were from him. They were frantic and misspelled. Probably due to the panic after finding my note. I didn’t bother reading them, because it was only the last one that mattered. The last message was sent twenty-three minutes ago and it read “I understand”.
I wanted to call him then, and tell him I’m sorry. I wanted to tell him I did still love him. I don’t know if I would ever not love him.
But I didn’t.
Instead I opened my door and marched up my steps to my bedroom. I always hid my blades in an expired medicine container. I dumped them in the trash. Then I found my journal that was hidden under my dresser. I opened it to the page where I first started talking about what I was doing to myself. It was two weeks after I first started. I was so afraid to tell anyone about it, even my own journal. I couldn’t even admit it to my own mind.
I tore out those pages. Then I tore out the pages after that and the pages after that and the pages before that until eventually it was nothing but a cover and spine. No more pages. No more content. No secrets. I stuffed those pages in the trash too.
I threw away all the stained towels. I put the trash on the sidewalk for the trash man and all I could think was “finally”.
Finally I did something. Just fucking something. I could do lots of somethings. I could make it out alive.
And I did. I would be okay again.