I miss being numb. Ironic since I used to feel like a zombie. Zombies can’t love. Zombies only survive. When nasty feelings did get to my heart, I let them bleed out. Or drink to quiet the loud in my head. Or a lovely concoction of the two, depending on the depth of said feelings. Clean the cuts, bandage them, pour the wine, and drink the bottle. Next day focus through the haze of depression, use every bit of energy to function, think of the cold glass of Pinot coming at the end of the day, fuel up by pressing my hand into my hip/arm, poke through my clothes to the slash underneath, feel the bright, blissful spark of pain, no one the wiser. Think of the soundless way my blood came out of me; think how much I want my head that soundless, that simple. Blood is perfect. Blood knows its job in the world: Keep the human it runs through non-zombie-like. Wonder if blood gets depressed when its human does not respect it? Here blood is, so hard-working, flowing to keep all these complex organs alive, and all I want to do is let it pour useless on the ground. Figures. My blood is depressed, too.
Zombies don’t let feelings get to them. I am now a failure at being a zombie.
You are Never alone.
Cutting and Self-Harm Information: