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When I was thirteen years young, I filleted my upper right thigh. 47 times. In one night. In one hour. I wrote suicide notes, Every night. I folded them up and put them in a drawer where the hid. Similar to the thoughts in the back cabinet of my mind. Dusty and untouched by the ears of any but my own, I rip them apart. Showing my emotions was always difficult. But so was showing them. So I hid my scars, along with the rest of my body. I had become a being of pure collagen. I festered over myself to become whoever those who were around me had wanted me to be. I folded under such slight pressure, a gust of wind could have put me away for months at a time. I was a Petri dish for one of God’s unexplained. Marching into every day like a virus in a new repertory system, “Hello, here I am!” And “No I don’t think meds will help...” So I had quit taking them. The anti depressants. The sleeping medication. The meds you take the morning after sleeping medication, to deactivate those sleeping pills, so that you’re at least awake to be numb. I stopped taking them, because I felt sympathy for factory machines. They’re told how to run. When to be off, when to be on, and the second they are off when they should be on, something is presumed to be wrong. I felt shame inject itself into my cardiovascular. I felt it coursing through my veins. I saw it in my hands the night I introduced my flesh to an eyeliner sharpeners blade. What they don’t tell you when you start medication, is that your brain senses this new and regular source of this chemical, and stops producing it. So I, was a literal wreck. I cut everyone toxic out of my life very quickly. I took my antidepressant. I gave myself time to heal. I figured out what kind of person I wanted to be. Kind Forgiving Brave And I brought her to life.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2019

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