Peace

I have a massive folder stuffed with papers of little tidbits I wrote at various points over the past year. This was in there. Before anyone throws a hissy fit, yes, I am well aware that self injury is NOT an indicator of suicidality. However, since it is concurrent with such a wide range of psychiatric conditions, it isn't unreasonable to think that someone with an SI history might also suffer from suicidality. That being said, if you have an SI history PLEASE do not read this as it may be triggering.

"Fuck!" I shout to no one in particular, slamming both hands against the steering wheel before veering off hard to the right. The undercarriage of my Chevy protests as the tall grasses and lumpy, uneven earth scrape close. Stopping the car about a hundred feet into a barren winter cornfeild, I kill the ignition and sit in silence, head tossed back and eyes closed. My breaths rasp heavily from my lungs, and even my own nose wrinkles at the alcohol reek on my lips.

Gazing skywards through that strip of tint the old cars like this always have at the top of the windsheild, the moon and stars are cast in blue. They look so cold without their natural soft yellows, uncaring voids in the desolation of space. I feel like that gibbous moon, barren and empty, half obscured in shadows, always chasing some warm glow I'll never be able to hold on to.

My Guiness beckons and I grab the half-empty bottle to take a swig. It slips through my sloppy drunken fingers, hitting the hard plastic of the cup holder just right - or just wrong, depending on how you look at it - and shatters, spilling its frothy contents across the passenger seat. I wail like a wounded animal, rubbing my hands over my face and dropping my head to the steering wheel. Even my escapes are failing me.

Fighting back tears, I look down at the shimmering shards of broken glass, glinting razor-sharp in the moon light. That urge, that obsessive urge like a ravening hunger, wells up inside of me. I pick up a green glass daggar, rolling up my left sleeve. In the dim lighting, the shadows play off of the scars, turning slight abberations of my flesh into nightmare landscapes of ragged pink gorges and lumpy white ridges. I trace the surface of my arm tentatively with my fingertip, the glass clutched in my hand running gently and cooly along my flesh like a promise of what was to come.

I hate it. I hate this. I hate the persistent tick-tock in my chest. I hate waking every god damned morning knowing that I've fucked up for good, that the rest of my life is just damage control from now on. Grazing over the thick blue veins peeking out from behind the pale flesh of my wrist, I wonder if I can go through with it. After all, isn't that what all these scars are? Practice?

I press the glass against the underside of my forearm, feel the sensation of the skin straining, straining, breaking. Feel the epidermis split, feel the fascia part, feel the muscle tear. Blood is already welling, making the shard slick so that I have to grip it tighter, make it bite into my palm to maintain grip as I drag it downwards. Closer and closer, it inches towards my wrist, the sound like shredding pantyhose but heavier somehow. The flayed flesh hangs open like a gutted fish in the moonlight. The blood looks black in darkness, like I am full of rot - and who's to say I'm not?

No good. Not close enough to any vessels. Is there nothing I can do right? Forget the slow stuff, foreplay is over. Steeling my arm and clenching my fist, I drive hard and fast against the skin, a puncture-then-pull motion meant to do major damage like a wolf's fangs worrying an elk's gut.

Suddenly, I'm not making a fist any more. My hand unfurls like a flower in sunlight, limp and exposed. Shit, I've hit a tendon instead of a vessel. So much for slashing the other wrist; better make this one count. I palpate the throbbing artery deep below the surface, beat skipping excitedly from the pain, leaving perfect rubicund prints behind just before I force the glass straight through it. Pain, sudden intense pain, then pulsating. Staring at the chunk of glass embedded a full half inch into the slickened flesh of my forearm, I see thick rivulents of blood welling up in a steady cadence all around the makeshift blade. No going back now. I drag the shard with gritted teeth, listening to that wet-fabric ripping noise of tearing flesh, then withdraw. The climax, my blood flowing out in big horror-movie gushes, begins to stain the upholstery.

I lean back in my seat, useless hand hanging low in my lap. The car is getting cold, and it's not just me; I can see my shuddering breaths rising in tiny white clouds before my eyes from the frigid temperature. I shiver a little, from the night air or the blood loss or both, and reach out with my right hand for the lever to recline. It slips from my slick grasp the first few times before finally letting the seat down. I fall back, letting out a long tremulous sigh before rolling my gaze skywards to the ceiling of my car. I wonder if this is what being in a coffin feels like.

Outside, crickets chirp and distant cattle low. No cars rumble by on the rural dirt road behind me; I am truly alone. It reminds me of how the sick barn cats on my grandpa's farm used to walk off into the woods to die. I never got it as a child, but I definitely understand right now.

Everything is getting cold now, the world fuzzy and dark around the edges. I'm not worrying about work or school, about relationships, about how I'm going to survive the next day. I'm just listening to the chorus of crickets fading in the background, feeling the warmth fading from my body just the same, the steady gush from the wound growing weak and erratic. I have no hope, no ambition, no plans for the future. And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I finally feel...

Peace.