Twenty Eight

By the end of the first week back from break,

I was not just cutting, I was cutting addictively. I threw away my blade on Sunday for the sake of telling my therapist during our phone session that afternoon that I threw away the blade like I promised at the beginning of spring break. I wrapped the knife up in two layers of paper, taped it, and hesitantly tossed it into the trash outside my room. I still regret it whenever I face my stress, anxiety, and depression and think, “Wow I would feel better if I just sliced a few on my legs.”

I cried that night. No, I sobbed. I just laid in bed and felt powerless and scared. I was scared I wasn’t going to get enough sleep and end up suffering through the next day. I was scared of the feelings that my cutting helped numb. My poor housemates must have heard me whimper, “Help me… help me…,” because I felt like I was going to die. Throwing away the knife may have affirmed my commitment to stop cutting and disturbing those around me, but suicidal thoughts, depression, and anxiety remain. And worse, the numbness is still here. If something wonderful or tragic happens, my emotions just draw a blank, because I don’t want to feel anything anymore.

If I can think of one comforting thought, it would be that I am almost done with my semester here. I finally found a major advisor, and not only that, this is the first teacher here who I reached out to and had a connection with. This may be the mentor I was waiting for. I know I shouldn’t wait for important things like finding a good mentor, but I learned enough about myself in the past year that I take a while to muster up the courage to form an interpersonal relationship. She also supported my dream to become an ob/gyn even though I feel less supported in that goal than my path to becoming a researcher. In fact, she was the first person other than my grandpa to believe in me like that. 

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