Carrying On

Written February 21, 2013

Today was rough, although I was grateful for the bright sunny day so that I could put my sunglasses on and hide.

Had I been home alone, I would have been cutting. Today I lost the strength to fight. I simply got tired, and I wanted nothing more than sweet relief by the blade across my wrist. I wanted my husband gone so that I could indulge in my private madness and fascination with sharp knives.

But alas, he remained by my side, inadvertently becoming my protector against my own rage. I kept my hands busy, I accomplished a project, and then I went to work to fight my demons in public. I had the presence of mind not to bring a blade with me.

It had been a long time since my emotions interfered with my concentration at work. Today was that day again. I came very close to launching an item across the room torpedo style, before I realized that no one would know that I was just fighting my own self-destructive urges, that my anger was not directed at them. Instead, I gently placed the item back on the shelf where it belonged and carried on.

Carrying on meant solving problems and helping people while thoughts of when and where I would be one with my blade constantly attacked me..."just one cut", I begged.

...But I knew better, I knew I just had to find a way to refrain, so, against every desire I was feeling at that moment, I texted some friends and invited them to lunch at my house this weekend.

It's harder to entertain when I am worried about hiding my wrists. It's better if I just don't touch them, and I will not.

This weekend I will enjoy my friends and cook another warming meal. I will once again become lost in the preparation of this meal and perhaps I will once again inhabit that safe haven that is my mother's arms and my mother's kitchen.