Death of a Dreamer

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In the Beginning

The first time I earnestly cut I coupled it with an alcohol soaked pill overdose.  I didn’t realize the depth you have to cut to do irreparable damage.  I’d like to say this was my first suicide attempt.  Or even my last.  You’d think the risk of having to drink charcoal again would be a deterrent.  But I figured the combination would surely meet me with the sweet demise I desperately sought.  As the pills kicked in I sliced away with a razor blade, watched the blood drip from my arms as I lay on my bed to die.  My ex-husband walked in to find me.  He was so caught up in his own life I figured he wouldn’t notice until I was finally gone.  And I swear I locked that cheap ass door but I neglected to remember the frame broke from a fight we had the previous night.  Who thinks of checking such things when one is intent on dying?

Yeah.  The ex-husband.  He was in medical school at the time and couldn’t be bothered with his wife unraveling.  He felt guilty, he said, every time he looked at me, at my wounds.  He was forced to remember the results of his deception, neglect, and cowardice when faced with my stitched up arms.

He left me a few months later.  He’s a wonderful doctor, husband, and father these days.  A true saint.

Fucking Facebook.

Me screaming at anyone who would listen – HE LEFT HIS SICK WIFE WHEN SHE NEEDED HIM THE MOST! EVEN THOUGH SHE HAD STOOD BY HIM FOR MANY YEARS AND HELPED HIM THROUGH COLLEGE AND MED SCHOOL! WHAT KIND OF FUTURE DOCTOR LEAVES SOMEONE WHO IS SICK! WHAT KIND OF MAN MAKES HIS WIFE THINK SHE IS CRAZY! – didn’t help my claims of sanity.

I didn’t scream that to anyone.  I tucked it away to bleed about later.

When my head could not land on one thought and I seriously thought I was insane (I probably was) I took comfort in ripping open my skin.  I felt nothing at first, only saw once white and seamless flesh filleted open.  When the burning pain did come along I held on to it like I’ve held my Tender Heart Care Bear through the years, it gave me solace and a sense of reality.

After the good doctor left I followed our abandoned love with a three year abusive relationship.  That was what I deserved, right?  Cutting and its just-as-wonderful sidekick liquor helped me through.

Here’s what’s fucked up (because nothing aforementioned has been fucked up enough) – Secretly shredding my skin was my normal.  Cutting got rid of a human façade at the end of a long day and only then was I was able to stop pretending to be someone I didn’t recognize.  I didn’t know where the student, the dreamer, the writer, or the artist I had cultivated went.  I carved away to dig her out.

Here is where I say, Don’t cut.  I get to do that since I’m a self-proclaimed expert.  See above.

What did/does cutting do for you?  I’d love for you to share.

-xo 3T

 


7 thoughts on “Death of a Dreamer

  1. Thank you very much for sharing this. I feel bad for ‘like’-buttoning it and for saying that it hits so close to home. The part where you say how it felt normal, I felt that too.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I am truly fascinated in your ability to descriptively detail the horrors of your illness. I will call it insanity for that is what it is, when we lose hope of being able to cope with our lives by societal terms. But there are so many variables, far too many to include in an initial response.

    I am reminded of a young woman in hospital when she described how cutting made her life easier when she could release this dark vacuum … I don’t know if anyone knows unless they have had the tragedy of experience.

    I applaud your resilience and growth. I really do.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. It takes courage to open up to one’s pain as you have. Courage doesn’t remove any of the pain. It simply allows one to keep moving forward in spite of the pain. That is what you are doing and I hope you will continue. Ultimately, it is this courage you have that teaches one to no longer fear life.

    Liked by 1 person

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