Last Saturday morning at 5:00AM, I sat alone on the floor of my kitchen bellowing in agony. I was holding a knife up to my chest. I wished to drive it through my heart. I applied enough pressure so that it would leave a temporary indent in my chest, but not enough to puncture my skin.
Just a few hours earlier, I was out having fun and throwing back drinks with a few friends. I looked fine and felt fine. Everything was fine.
As the night turned into morning, disaster had ensued. I was struck by intolerable pain, and I had no other option but to flee the scene abruptly.
As I fumbled with the keys to open the door to my apartment, the tears began stream down my face.
I stormed into my apartment and headed straight to my bedroom and threw myself onto my bed. I buried my face into my sheets leaving behind stains of mascara tears.
I couldn’t breathe. I just kept gasping for air. I wished that I would just stop breathing completely.
Instantaneously, I jumped off my bed and onto my window sill. I opened the window and stepped out onto my unsteady fire escape. I was hoping it would collapse with the pressure of my weight. I stood there looking down at the five stories below me. I wanted to jump, except a small voice of sanity left in me convinced to go back inside. So I crawled back inside and shut my window closed. I then began pacing back and forth around my apartment. The pain was incapacitating. I did not know how I was going to be able to go on.
Finally, I opened my kitchen drawer filled with silverware and pulled out a chef’s knife. I dropped to the ground and held it to my chest. It took everything I had not to drive it through my heart. Slowly I put the knife down, and replaced it with a rather sharp pair of scissors. I cut myself. I cut myself across my wrists. 20 times. And I felt relieved. I had to do it. It was the only way of saving myself.