Simple things set me off. I don’t go into an anger rage. More like a rage of depression. A you mean I didn’t do this right… oh my gosh I don’t want to live rage. It’s like a Stargate that takes you from one world to the other with no in between. A free fall that all you remember is being on the plane or top of cliff and then waking up hurt and confused on the ground. It’s not a rage against someone else, only me. In those times of the rage though, it almost seems like I am someone else, like the rage is targeted at me, who isn’t me.
A rage that I can’t remember, but know that it is there. A rage that brings about blood, my own blood. A climax of feelings that ends with the feeling of knowing that I deserved what I got. As punishment for all the times I’ve lost control. For all the times I lived when I should have killed myself. To be able to feel the pain I can’t put into words. As if watching a physical wound heal will help the emotional ones inside. The wounds inside I don’t know about, I can’t remember, I can’t talk about.Long before this I have started to cry. The blood is blurry in between tears. Dizziness took over long ago. I’m me but I’m not me. I’m there but I’m not there. I’m inside my body but also outside looking in.
I watch as the knife cuts into me, but I can’t stop it. This time in the arm, maybe next time in another place. I’m so exhausted and so tired I just want to sleep. Eventually I do, the knife stops cutting. I wake up and the past events are like a dream, until I see the cuts. Things are better now, at least until the next thing that triggers the rage.