Unconditional Love

The dim lighting of the motel bathroom shone down on my face. I took a deep breath, hoping to regain some of my sanity. The water drummed against the plastic bottom of the motel shower. It's been running for so long it's probably cold now. I feel dirty.

I allowed my hands to reach up. My finger tips hovered over the markings, the spot where Tyler's lips had been just a little while ago. Tyler had already left, but I was staying. I had access to this motel room until four o'clock and I'm probably not going to leave until then. I would not allow my fingers to touch my skin. Beautiful red and purple marks adorned it. Tyler had left them there without realizing how much pain he would cause me afterwards. Not physical pain, Tyler would never do that to me. He was careful, treating me like a delicate doll, acting as though I would break at any moment. I told him to leave the marks. He asked and said, "Just do it. God, please, just do it." The words tumbled from my lips before I even knew what I was saying. This was my fault. I was the one who brought it up. I wanted him so badly, but I know I was wrong.

Finally, my fingers landed. Tracing down my neck, onto my bare chest and then falling. They landed on the countertop. I was holding the counter so tightly my knuckles turned white. I was afraid if let go I might collapse. I kept running over every detail in my mind over and over and over again. I wanted to stop thinking about it. This is so wrong. I'm wrong. What is wrong with me.

My family would dissapointed in me. I told them about Tyler over a year ago. They were shocked, especially my father. He said, "What did I wrong?" over and over again. My mother just cried. She sat in her chair in our living room and just cried. I tried to say something to her, to tell her it was okay, that I'm okay, but she wouldn't listen. She pushed me away and just kept crying. My father yelled, "Don't touch your mother, faggot." Tears streamed down my face from a never-ending river inside of me. I ran. I ran all the way to Tyler's apartment and threw myself at him. I cried all night in his arms. Tyler drove me back to my house later that night when everyone was asleep and I packed up my things. My little sister, Sophia, woke up at the noise and asked me where I was going. I didn't have the heart to tell her I was leaving, so I said I was going on a trip and I'll be back in a few days. She smiled and asked if she could come, but I told her no and not to tell mom and dad that she saw me. She promised and I left. I got into Tyler's car and we drove back to his apartment. I haven't seen Sophia since.

I felt the first tear fall onto the back of my hand. I was disgusted with myself. I ruined my relationship with my family and now all I have is Tyler. Tyler is great. He's handsome, understanding, and cares about me, but if he leaves I'll have no one. The thought of Tyler leaving me brought more tears. Why am I like this? My parents have always told me they'd love me unconditionally, so why were there conditions to their love. Are there conditions to Tyler's love? My baggage might be too much for him. What if he doesn't understand? My feelings about myself are so much different than his. I lifted a hand to my face and wiped away some of the tears. I looked into the mirror and stared at my face. Why does Tyler tolerate me? I'm just a pest. I'm always whining about everything when he just accepts himself for who he is. I dropped onto the floor, unable to look at myself for any longer. I hate when I get like this. This pitiful cycle of self-loathing happens more often than I want to admit. My hands ball into fists. Now, I'm angry.

I'm angry at myself, my family, and Tyler. I am a product of my parents and it is their fault I am like this. They have no right to say that I am not right in what I think, because they are the reason I am who I am today. Unless, I am like this, because there is something wrong with me. I heard somewhere that this is a mental illness. Maybe their right. Maybe I need help? I should go see a professional. Who's fault would it be then? My own? Maybe this was Tyler's fault. He was my first boyfriend and I had never thought about men that way until him. That's a lie. I had always thought this way even though I knew it was wrong. I just told myself I didn't. I dated girls. I tried so hard to be who I was expected to be, but I couldn't. It was too much. Too much to erase the way I thought about an entire gender.

I have no right to think this way about other people. Why wouldn't they be disgusted by me? They have every reason to be. I got up and opened the door to the bathroom. My bag was over by the bed. The sheets were still rumpled and I felt sick to my stomach looking at them. I dug around in the bottom of my bag until I found it.

The blade was sharp and shiny. It was new. I had only bought it a week ago. For emergencies only. I pressed the flat part of the knife into my palm, giving myself a minute to breath. The cool metal felt nice on my sweaty palm.

The first cut was harsh. It stung. The wound quickly turned red and the blood started to flow out of it. I watched, mesmerized as the little droplets of red flowed from my arm. It was painful, but I felt more relief in it than any other coping mechanism could provide.

I did it again.

I couldn't stop now. I cried, holding my arm and getting blood all over this shtty motel's carpet. I want to die. This isn't the first time I've felt like this. This happens more often than I'd like to admit. I laid down on the dirty ground and let my arms fall to my sides. Maybe I'll bleed out here. What if I die like this? That would be just like me, perfectly capable of getting up and fixing the problem, but content with doing nothing. I laid for what felt like hours until I heard a knock at the door. Oh god. They're here to kick me out. Is it four already? Then there was a shout from the other side of the door.

"Babe? You in there? I forgot my keys."

I looked down at myself and then back at the door. If I didn't answer he would just go get another room key from the front office. I had to open the door. If he sees me like this he's going to leave me. Reality was slapping me in the face, hard. It hurt. More than any self-inflicted injury. I felt stupid and pathetic. I'm sure Tyler will think the same thing. I got up. My arm was covered in blood and I still didn't have a shirt on. I called out to Tyler, "I'm coming."

On my way to the door I picked up his keys. I unlocked and opened the door. I kept my head down and lifted my arm to hand the keys to him. I heard him gasp and I waited for the onslaught of insults or for him to just break up with me, but it didn't come. Instead, he hugged me. I looked up at him, confused. Why isn't he yelling? Isn't he mad. He pressed into me with his body, directing me back inside the room. I moved back into the room and sat down on the bed. Tyler said nothing. He just started to clean up the room. He moved back and forth from the bathroom to the bedroom, throwing things away, cleaning things.As he did this, I just sat on the bed, feeling sad for myself. Then he came out of the bathroom with a wet washcloth and took my arm. He began to clean up the cuts. There were a lot of them. Lines and xs all down my left arm.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Tyler asked while he was gently rubbing the blood off my wrist. "I understand if you don't, but I'm here if you want to."

"You're not mad?"

He looked startled. "Of course I'm not mad. How could I ever be mad at you?" He smiled and ran his fingertips along my jawline, lifting my face up and forcing me to meet his eyes. "I just want to know why."

I didn't know what to say to that. How could I explain why in a cohesive explanation? It was too complicated to put into words. I just stared at him blankly.

"I don't know."

He nodded and smiled at me."I understand."