Afraid

Ch. 16 - Dick is NOT a healthy coping mechanism

Major TW- detailed description of self harm.

Violet

I'm dead.

Deceased.

A bloating, bruised corpse rotting on the side of the road.

Or at least that's how I feel, waking up from yet another fleeting nightmare. I shake the remaining details away but otherwise stay rooted in bed. Sinking deeper into my thick blankets. My limbs feeling detached like they've liquified into a thick goo, seeping into the mattress. Rendering me useless. And I welcome the imprisonment. I'm stuck here and better for it. Now let me disappear.

I pull the covers over my head, hoping for sleep again. Olive apparently also on the same page, stretched out and snoring away between my legs.

Is this how it's always going to be?

Trigger after trigger, dragging me back down every time I even attempt to stand back up. Slammed back to the starting line, where I'm forced to nurse my freshly reopened wounds. And I'm left hollow again, sensitive to the touch, and suicidal as ever.

Cut. Cut. Cut.

I can picture it now. A razor blade. A box cutter. A paring knife. Those flimsy blades that come in the disposal razors. I've broken plenty apart to get to the sharp ends. Anything I can get my hands on.

Each of them slicing me apart. The smooth strokes. The quick pinch of pain that comes when I dig the blade deeper. I squeeze my eyes shut, relishing in the phantom pain that kisses my skin all over. Just picturing it relieves some pressure. It's almost toe curling.

I'm not going to do it. I won't do it.

I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine.

I shove the thoughts away, begging them not to win. I'm stronger than this. I don't need to cut. It never solves anything anyways. I'm always left ashamed and deeper in my depression than I initially started at. It's a never ending cycle of addiction. At least that's how Carolina explained it to me. Cutting, self-harm is an addiction. It was unbeknownst to me when I made that first cut that it would haunt me for the rest of my life. The urge following me, always ready to slither forward and entice me. I still remember the day I decided to try it out for real. I had been picturing it for so long at that point, I was itching to hurt myself in any way, in any form. Stapling my finger. Burning my hand. Even the accidental cuts and bruises gave me a surge of relief. So I finally tried it. I was maybe 11 years old and I was washing dishes. Jade had just purchased a new kitchen knife set. And they were shiny and sharp, glimmering with temptation. I took the tiny paring knife over my left index finger and swiped, hard and fast. It bled profusely. I had underestimated how sharp the knife actually was and almost sliced my finger right off. I ended up needing stitches. Jade and the ER staff believed me when I said it was an accident.

From that point on, I kept going. Using different tools, experimenting with slicing different parts of my body. Finding the most incognito, fleshy parts. I did it all.

I groan in frustration. These thoughts are not helping. I need to sleep. Just sleep off the urges until they're silent once more. And I almost do, when my phone starts vibrating loudly on my side table.

Fucking shit. Leave me alone. I ignore the call, letting it buzz without checking who it could be. Even though it could really only be El, Jade, or a scam call. I'm hoping for the scam call. A few silent seconds later, it rings again. Vibrating away as I turn over, facing the opposite direction.