Relapse

"I have to go. Homework."

It's not a lie. I do have homework. Math problems. Spanish writing. History reading. I'll probably be up past midnight finishing it all. Then class at eight.

I turn back to my computer, but I can't see it. Tears are blurring my vision. Not that I'd be able to focus on anything if my eyes were dry.

Cracks are opening up. Words that hurt, that cut. Words that I though I had a handle on. It turns out I didn't. It turns out that no matter how many times I repeat them to myself, however I try to build up a shield, they still have unimaginable power in the mouth of someone else.

I failed again. I probably shouldn't have made that call at all. BUt not making it would have felt like a failure, too. A different kind of failure. If I hadn't called, it would have been a slow erosion. A continuation of the attack on my self-worth that's been my ever-present companion for the bast few weeks. This wayit all comes at once. There's something to be said for ripping off the bandaid, but this may be more than I can bear.

It hurts. Inside, outside, everywhere. My stomach, my heart, my eyes, my brain. Nothing makes sense. I can't get a grip on it, can't figure out what I did wrong, can't begin to make it right. Any optionI come up with seems to only lead to more hurt, more failure.

The pain expands, fills the entire room. I don't know where I begins and the pain ends. I lost my grip on whatever had been keeping me afloat for the past few months and now I'm drowning. The only thing I know for sure is that I don't have time to deal with this. I don't have time to come to terms with what I'm feeling, to ride it out or understand it or even stuff it back in a box. There's graph theory to learn, a Spanish essay to write, The Royal Society of London to read about.

My eyes focus on my jewelry box. It contains a solution. It's not a good solution, but it's the only one I have right now. I don't have time for anything else.

My hands fumble at the lock, open the drawer. There it is: a slim, sliver blade, ripped from a cheap Bic razor. I haven't looked at it since high school. But I carried it halfway across the country in case I needed it.

I pull down my pants and slice across my upper thigh. A line of red appears as if by magic and starts dripping. I have a kleenex ready to keep it from staining anything. I take a breath and the pain shrinks down, like Alice after a bite of mushroom. It's contained now, in this bright red gash on my thigh.

I mop up the blood with another kleenex, then go to the sink for my first aid kit. Alcohol swabs and a bandaid. See? I can take care of myself. I can handle this. It's just a little cut, nothing so serious after all.

Back at my desk it's easy to focus on graph theory. My thigh hurts sharply, but I put it out of my mind. Now that it's physical and dealt with the pain is an easy thing to ignore.

I'm not avoiding anything. Not really. I'll deal with it later, I promise myself. As soon as the semester's over I can fall to pieces. In the meantime I'll use the razor to keep myself stitched together.