I stood, well... Tried to stand. I looked in the mirror taking in the reflection of my blood colored cuts, and me. Ugly. I reached for the alcohol and dampened a towel. I bit my lip. The sting was unbearable. I feel to the ground with the indescribable feeling numbing my leg. I suppose you could refer to it as pins and needles in my leg. I began to cry knowing that I was filling the whole inside of my with pain, blood, scars.
I tried to stand. It worked. Only for a moment. I feel back down. Now I feel guilty. More regret. I waited, stood again, and was relieved when I could hold myself up. Barely. My leg was shaking under me.
I took my blood-stained wrap and covered up my leg. I only did it because of my old scars. I don't like the pale, but I find the red alluring, fascinating, even if I dare say, beautiful.
Today the blood was seeping through. I counted my tally, 166. How did this happen? I've never done this many, and in such a short period of time. It's only been 4 days. Am I really that sad? Is my life that awful?
I slipped on my pants, grabbed the car keys, and slipped out of the front door before my mom woke up from her nap. I had made plans to hang out with my best friend a week in advance so there was no getting out of it. Plus I had bailed on her the last three times. When I arrived I covered up my guilt and pain as best as possible. The blood had gone through my jeans. If she asks I'll say it was paint, I thought to myself.
We were walking up the stairs when my leg gave way. It had been shaking the whole time, but finally it couldn't take anymore. I went tumbling down the stairs. I landed on my bad leg causing me to shout out in pain. I swear I was laying in a puddle of my tears by the time she got to me. She say me clutching my leg and rolled them up. At first, she was puzzled. All she saw was my bloodied, damp wrap. She helped me to the bathroom.
I was sitting on the toilet and the tub was running when she finally decided to lift my leg into her lap and see what was really going on. She looked horrified. She switched the water from warm to cool knowing that it would bring less pain. She took a towel and soaked it in water so she could start washing away the old and new blood. Soon, she could see all I had done. Suddenly, she began to cry, and just as I began to stop.
She asked why and all I could spit out was, "I was upset."
I was was? What type of answer was that. I wanted to pour my heart out to her, but. I couldn't.
She took a bottle of allow from her medicine cabinet and some Advil.
"Take this," she said, "It'll help the pain stop quicker." I did.
She squeezed the cool lotion onto my leg. At first it was satisfying. Then, excruciating. This was by far worse than the rubbing alcohol. I was gripping the toilet seat rim as hot tears streamed from my eyes and dripped off my chin.
The worst part was that I liked it, loved it, savored it. That's what always made me feel the most unnatural. I felt I deserved the pain, the burning. After all, it was my fault. I'm not sure what... But it was and is. It's always my fault. Every time, everything.
She got up and went to get an old tee shirt to rip up and wrap my leg in. Then she helped me to the couch. After a long guilting silence she spoke. She told me she wanted to help and try to encourage me to stop. I told her it'd be hard. She didn't care.
I was glad. I needed her help.