The Pain rolled out like sheets of anger. The adult me found it difficult to move forward or to move back. I sat frozen on my bed waiting for something to tell me what the next move was. I could not cut my arm. I could not not cut my arm. So, I sat waiting. Puzzling out the solution to the problem.
Somewhere deep inside, a voice wanted me to call Rahne or BJ or whoever it was that could tell me what to do next.
* * * * * * *
(I CAN’T WRITE ANY MORE. You don’t have to. I CAN’T WRITE ANY MORE. You don’t have to. I CAN’T WRITE ANY MORE. Ok, so don’t. I CAN’T WRITE ANY MORE. I CAN’T WRITE ANY MORE. IT HURTS TOO MUCH.)
* * * * * * *
One minute, I was listening to that voice inside trying to decide who to call. The next minute, it was Sasifraz relentlessly badgering me to do myself in or at the very least bleed a little. Finally, as there seemed to be no end in sight, I made a call to BJ and left a message. Then, I called Rahne.
“Hi, Rahne.”
“Hi, Joceile.”
“Have you got a minute?” I asked thickly, feeling my tongue roll around the words.
“Yes.”
“Rahne, I have the disease again.”
“Yeah, what’s going on?”
And, it began. A discussion that varied only a small percentage for me on a theme that never seemed to leave my life. It was either, “I’m angry;” “I’m upset;” “I want to cut myself:” “I want to kill myself;” or the ever popular language of implication: “Sasifraz is being very noisy.”
(Now, I know I’m supposed to love myself, but I get very tired of this.)
To which Rahne replied patiently, “What’s going on Joceile?”
Sometimes, I was able to come out with it pretty quickly. Sometimes, I stormed around in this direction or that before I got to what was really bothering me.
Inevitably, Rahne was tolerant. Most often, she was caring and loving. But, it was still so hard for me to ask for help and still so hard for me to not hate myself when I did. Although, the act of asking in itself was caring.
I sighed a thousand times. But, it got only a little bit easier, because I trusted Rahne. And, it got harder, because the memories were so bad.
* * * * * * *
(THE WOMAN. HOW THE FUCK DID I REMEMBER THAT? I’VE FORGOTTEN RIGHT NOW. I’m sure it will come back to you. EVERYTHING SEEMS TO.)
* * * * * * *
It was long about this time when I realized I was suicidal. I had been having a conversation with Rahne about arm cutting, and I used the word suicidal. Rahne commented on it. All of a sudden, I realized with clarity that I was indeed SUICIDAL. (A blinding flash of the obvious.)
Years before, I had stopped using the word and put it out of my mind. I “just” cut I arm. I wasn’t really going to kill myself. Therefore, I must not be suicidal. Now, incredibly and a bit sheepishly, I realized that wanting to die was what arm cutting was all about.
Rahne and I had a good laugh over that one. That I could cut myself on and off for ten years and forget that the real issue was living or dying. I realized that denying being suicidal was a way that I had protected other people and encouraged them to not be concerned about my arm cutting.
The realization was a turning point for me, but now I had to deal with the real issue. Did I want to live or die? And, if living was the choice, how the hell was I going to do it?
END OF PART 1
(Thank you for reading. Part 2 follows. Pictures on next page.)