18. Laney
I’m struggling.
It’s the day after the shitshow at the restaurant, and I can’t seem to get myself out of bed. I debate calling the therapist and asking for an emergency appointment, but I can’t even get the strength to do that.
My bladder ends up being the one thing that motivates me enough to slide off the mattress, and I make my way into the bathroom.
I can’t walk in here without thinking of my mom, and how it was the last place she ever saw. When I sit on the toilet to relieve myself, I see myself sitting in her ghost, like a shadow or an echo.
I finish up and move to the sink to wash my hands. I open the medicine cabinet—mainly out of a strange kind of apathetic boredom. All her pills are still in there, as are some cheap plastic razors.
Barely even thinking about what I’m doing, I take one down.
I break open the plastic casing around the razor blade. It’s harder and more fiddly than I’d anticipated, but I keep going. Finally, I free the sliver of metal and pick it up between my forefinger and thumb. It’s cold, a shard of ice, but it quickly warms from my body heat.
Experimentally, I place the sharp side of the blade against my opposite forearm. What will it feel like to cut? Will it hurt? Will it transfer the pain in my heart to an external pain?
I press the blade down. My mouth has run dry, but otherwise I’m calm. The constant undercurrent of panic I’ve been living with seems to have abated for the moment.
On either side of the metal, pinpricks of blood appear, bright red against the paleness of my skin. It amazes me how quickly the tan I’d acquired while living at the cabin has faded. But then I’ve been inside almost twenty-four-seven since I’ve been back in civilization.
I press harder, and the blood droplets swell. It’s mesmerizing, and I don’t feel any pain. I also haven’t thought about all the other shit going on in my life right now. All my focus is on my arm.
The skin parts like petals on a blooming flower. For a second, I glimpse pale flesh beneath before it turns red. Then blood is running down my arm and dripping onto the floor. I stare at it numbly.
Is this why doctors used to do bloodlettings when people got sick hundreds of years ago?
Maybe they weren’t sick with a physical disease, but a mental or emotional one instead.
The release of the blood eased something inside them and made them feel better, if only temporarily.
It’s a strange thing to suddenly understand, but I feel like I do.
The blood continues to drip. The sight of it against the dirty linoleum brings me back to reality.
“Shit!”
I drop the razor blade into the sink and reach for the toilet paper.
Quickly, I gather a ream of it around my fist and press it to the self-inflicted wound.
I need it to stop bleeding. What will I do if it doesn’t?
I don’t want to have to take myself to the ER and explain to some doctor what happened.
They would probably demand to do a psych report on me.
To my relief, it seems to stop.
I grab a Band-Aid from the cabinet and cover the wound. I swill water around the sink, watching the blood dilute and eventually disappear altogether. I pick up the blade and toss it in the trash and promise myself I’ll never do that again.
Then I take myself back to bed, curl up on my side, and go back to staring at the wall.