The Contradiction of Living

IV

I thought maybe I was learning to live. I was wrong. I was actually starting to be happy. Or, at least, content with my life. Then it struck me, on Christmas Eve, nonetheless, how incredibly useless and worthless I am. It's a hard feeling to survive with, let's just say I wear long sleeves and bracelets constantly, now.

It's a much different feeling than on your legs, cutting your wrists. When you first dig the blade in, your fingertips go tingly, then numb. You don't get that feeling on your forearm. On your wrist, though, you can actually see the veins you're trying to split open.

I figured out that I wasn't even living. Just preparing, planning. I'm not sure if I could actually go through with suicide, not because I'm scared of it, more so because I'm scared of what will happen if I fail. However, I don't feel like I really care much about anything anymore, so the next time I'm crossing the street, I might just let a car hit me. No one would have to know it was a suicide. I could just slip away unnoticed.

Of course, whoever was driving the car would probably be filled with immense guilt for the rest of their lives, unless they're a sociopath with no capacity for emotion. I wish I was like that sometimes. It would be fascinating to me just to explore their subconscious, their thought process, I want to know what it would be like to live without feeling.

I like to believe that it would make everything so much simpler. I know I'm wrong, though. It only complicates things, for me and all those after me. It starts a chain that may never end. It quickens a catastrophe.

I've never been good at hiding things, so when I accomplished something privately, I had to come up with an excuse to be in a good mood. 'I cut myself deep enough for blood to trail all the way down my leg,' wouldn't go over well in front of my mother. Nonetheless, I was overjoyed at my own destruction. I was doing something right, for once.

I've felt, for a long time, that I have no purpose. But I know that's not true every time I pick up a blade. Maybe it's unhealthy. Maybe it's psychotic, but it's keeping me alive, so who are you to judge?

I can see the others, now. Everyone else who's fallen victim to the sweet disease known as cutting. I can see it in their eyes, their fingers. It's like any addiction, you're always craving your next fix. But cutters especially can never hide it. Someone's hand so much as ghosts near their area of choice and their eyes take on that 'deer in the headlights' look. Hand them something sharp and their fingers almost subconsciously trail over the edges, as if wishing to be able to dig them into their skin.

Their expressions are painted on expertly, but someone like me can see past the strokes to the broken kid addicted to their own self destruction.

I always look at myself in the mirror, wondering if my face reflects it as well. I wonder how many people have seen and kept their lips shut. I wonder how many have acknowledged my own suffering without me noticing. I wonder if I'm the only one that can see these things.

I've often considered the possibility of it all being a sexual thing, like a 'pain kink' or something similar, but it doesn't fit. I don't find myself turned on by the pain. I just.. Crave it. Like craving salt, or sweet foods, only deeper. The only true comparison is to a drug, something that can hook you before you even know it, but the truth is, even drugs are a poor synonym.

A blade is worse than nicotine. A lighter is worse than weed. And heroine filled needles? They don't hold a candle to the desire just a few more missed meals hold. Self destruction is my addiction. And I'm not going to be breaking it any time soon. I have a purpose to fulfill.