I wish there was a doctor who could stitch my life up, pull all the edges together

I sit in the emergency room getting stitches. The doctor is asking me if I’m feeling ashamed of what I’ve done, if I’m ashamed of my self-harm. In between my outbursts of hysterical laughter, I manage to tell him that I am. That it’s not just the self-harm I’m ashamed of, but also the fact that I’m miserable and depressed. Because who am I to be sad when I got everything material settled, when I got a nice family and good friends? Who am I to spill a single tear, who am I to feel hurt, and feel the pain of the world pushing on my shoulders? I’m ashamed that I’m sick. Not because I think that mentally ill should be ashamed, of course not, not for a second. But because I am a worthless piece of shit, and I shouldn’t be allowed to feel pain, I should just suck it up and get over it, right?

I’m sitting on the exam table, bending my leg over, so he’ll be able to access the gaping hole in my body. I can barely keep still, I’m laughing so much. I’m loopy, and even if I try to stop howling, I can’t. I can barely pull myself together to answer his questions. But at the same time I’m totally clear inside my head. It feels like I’m trapped there. My thoughts are spinning, but I’m still clear, I’m still aware of how I sound, how I look. Shame isn’t really the feeling that fills me, it’s frustration. Frustration that it isn’t tears I’m hiding behind the hands covering my face. It’s an idiotic laugh, that doesn’t fit the situation at all. I’m not happy! So why am I laughing so hard, desperately, frantic?

He’s giving me a local anesthetic, it stings. Then I sit there watching him pressing the needle in and out of my skin, pulling the edges together. Why did I do this to myself? Why did I do this to myself? Why did I do this to myself? How could I make a hole in my skin? How could I cut deep into myself like that? How is that possible? HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE!? … And how …  sigh …  how is it possible to be trapped inside yourself, yelling to yourself about being quiet, and still keep laughing as you see a doctor neatly putting you back together again? Where is the control? Where is the sense in that?

I get a valium, and go back home. I know that I’m stitched up, put together, fixed … but I’m not. I’m broken. I’m fucking broken, and I don’t know what to do about it, I don’t even know where all the shattered pieces are. I don’t know why I should even care about pulling it together. Why not just trash this life, it’s broken anyways? I take the valium, and some extra sleeping pills, and am grateful that I have a low tolerance, I barely make it to the bed from the couch once it starts working. I literally dive into bed, with my clothes on, and I’m taken away.

Sadly there’s a morrow.



PS: The doctor was amazing. He was real nice, probably the nicest I’ve met in the depressed, I hurt myself, I need help situation. I was glad I met someone who didn’t seem to judge me, I needed someone like that, though, don’t we always?