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How do I find comfort?
My insides are churning. I’ve felt that for a week now. Or is it a month? I cannot really remember when. There is red when I close my eyes.
My knuckle hurts. It doesn’t look that bad, it’s just a little bruise. No one will ever see it, anyway. Because no one looks at me this closely. The little bruise is a bit red now, from the freshness of my bite. It hurts a little. A small, reassuring pain. A small reminder that I am still here.
I want to scream. I want to break a plate or a glass or a cup. But it is the middle of the night. I couldn’t wake them up. So I make this little dent in my burden instead. I clasp my teeth. My knuckle is white. A little bruise appears in the shape of my canine. It only hurts a little.
I want to scream again. But it is the middle of the day. They are playing close by. I can’t break a plate or a glass or a cup. He would scold me. He always scolds. I always scold myself. I don’t like me.
I want to scream and to brake and to yell and to come back. But I am too far away. So I clench my teeth on my white knuckle and I mark my left index. It stops my need of screaming. It stops my need to create shards out of pottery and glassware. It brings me back. A reminder that I am here, in the shape of a little bruise.
She is crying. She is so little. I cover my ears. I bite my knuckle. The little bruise is a reddish brown. It looks like a birthmark. It is the birthmark of my abyss. The chasm that lives inside my guts. I don’t like me. I don’t love me. I love her. I can’t show her my love unless I mark my left index in the same spot, with my canine, again and again, every day of every week.
She is crying. She is little. I am holding her near my heart. Maybe it will melt and start beating again. Her little heart is beating little beats inside her little chest. She is warm and little.
I am swirling. It is dawn. The room is spinning. The floor is melting. I bite my knuckle. I am back. The sky is pink and purple and my eyelids are red, my bruise is brown and my thoughts are dark.
I gather my courage. My mirror showed my dark eyes and pale skin and blue veins. My knuckle brings me back again. I am here. I am alive. I gather my courage to tell him. I need help. My head feels light, like a memory of a headache. It is a good pain. I am here. I want to heal. She needs me. I need me. He needs me, too. I need the help.
My voice is cracking. “I think I’m having a depression.”
He looks up. He is frowning. Will he scold me? Is he upset? I upset him. I hate me. My head is swimming. My knuckle wants to bring me back with a pang. But he can’t see me clenching my teeth around it.
“What? Why? You have no reason to be depressed. You have all you need. You should be happy.”
My eyelids are red. My voice is broken. I am broken. I have no reason for depression. I have no reason. There is no reason in me. Mindless Selfish should be happy.
I want his touch. I need his comfort. I wanted his touch, his comfort. Now I don’t. I am here. I am here and I am alive and I am hurt and my knuckle hurts and I am here and I am alone.
My reflection is looking back at me. Am I this person? Who is this person?
He is close and I try to hug him, to find the soothing of his warm arms. He pushes me away. “Wait, I have to hold these.” I look at my feet and run back to the bathroom. There is never time for a hug. I need to shoulder it all.
Teeth are clenched around my index. Hand is gripped around my voice. Scream is silenced behind my eyes. Ears shout around my brain. Heart skips beats and boils my stomach. Throat is tight and there’s no air. Eyes burn.
My eyes are ice. My left index is bruised. A little bruise that brings me back. It sends me into my abyss. The tile is cold, my feet are cold, I am cold and my own hug is not enough.
I am here.
I am alive.
Glass breaks.
The tile is freezing my cold feet, my hand hurts from the sudden movement. How did the glass reach the wall? Shards flew down and hit the floor.
Oh.
My hand threw the glass. I threw the glass. It broke into sharp pieces. I need to clean it. Oh, my right toe stings. I stepped on a small and invisible shard. Does it bleed? It’s my own blood. Red. Fresh. Its heat hurts.
Mmh.
This pain is different. I can paint with it. A thin trace of crimson on white tile. The other shards can wait a while longer. If I press my toe, the red paint is thicker. Beautiful color. This color hurts differently from the brown on my knuckle. A little pool of red, glass, and pain that brings me back.
The ache in my head fades. Oxygen starts entering my lungs once again. The crease on my forehead unfurrows. The red smear dries out bit by bit, and I’m dragging out my toe and marvel at the shape.
Hm…
I don’t like the pain, but it seems to be calming. The breaking feels liberating, and I’m paying the price with a scratch on my toe. So be it.
I must clean the shards and wipe the floor and tie my toe and throw the bits and calm my nerves and drink some water.
Better.
This pill will make me better. This pill is making me better. Today, I can finally play with her. She is growing up fast and I intend to enjoy every second of it that I can. I feel like I already lost a few months of her precious young life. There was so much pain in me, and it scares me to think about it. She needs me to be better. I need me to be better. He also needs me better. We need each other.