A year ago the knife broke.
I tried to end my life and that damn knife, which had already opened up my flesh to begin dying, decided to break as it hit my arm in what I’d hoped would be the last stab to bleed out.
A year ago life as I knew it came to a bloody, screaming, violent, heartbreaking, mind breaking end.
Psych ward? Check. Homeless/living in brother’s basement once I escape? Check, check.
People haven’t shunned me, though. No one has put me in a strait-jacket and returned me to the looney bin. I’ve made new friends and become closer to existing friends and my family. I’m befuddled why they let me mingle among respectable society.
They say brave. I say crazy. When you go from being engaged to a person you thought was “The One” to lying in a hospital bed with staples in your arm, shit has gone wrong, so very wrong. It’s crazy to go balls-to-the-wall dealing/writing/drinking/sobbing/over thinking/over sharing to become bigger and more badass; it’s not brave.
I’m still working on moderation.
Did you know a heart can break over and over and still continue to pump blood?
He was right about one thing; I deserve better than him, than what he could offer me.
My journey has not been a smooth, velvety Cabernet; it has swirled between a nose-wrinkle $2 vinegar-y headache and a cool, light, lovely peachy buzz. I am proud of the person I have rampaged to become. This chick is a force. This chick has big dreams. No one will ever drown out my voice again.
Within this past year I have found a strength I didn’t know I possessed, landed a promotion, become a published author, started this blog, and I’ve shown guys I will be respected. (this is paraphrased from my dearest friend, she always turns my perspective towards the good, which is awesome because I tend to remain in the melancholy. Love you, SK!)
I use my battles to reach someone, anyone, even if it is just one person. Because that one life matters. And because that life matters I can’t be quiet, I won’t hide my pain or the scars, I won’t be embarrassed about stripping my soul to bare every flaw. Watch me twirl and don’t judge my dimples.
There is someone out there who can barely breathe under the weight of their sadness, who feels toxic, who has to cut to feel something besides detachment, who drinks to quiet those loud-ass voices. That person needs to know dark and crazy moments lurk around almost everyone’s lives but it doesn’t mean something is wrong with them or they are irretrievable from the brink. Shit happens and when you’re dealing with depression and suicidal thoughts on the norm everything feels magnified. I know.
A year later and I can still remember every moment of my personal apocalypse.
The knife resides in a drawer of my Pier 1 vanity, dulled by dried blood and snuggled against necklaces and earrings.
That stupid knife, which had one fucking job to do, broke. Maybe it broke in sympathy of my sanity. Or Aunt Kathy from above said, “Hell no, meathead. Not like this.” I picture her, feathery winged and glowing, reaching down to block the blade with concrete force, then going to meet grandpa for a beer to discuss my remaining journey.
Cheers to my many angels. Because of you I’ve made it a year.