For weeks after that, I thought about having a hole of my own. I dreamed of lying in the cold dirt, of the silence, of the peace. I went walking, to try and find the spot where I would dig my hole. But nothing was remote enough. I was in the middle of nowhere, but it was still crowded. I couldn’t get far enough away from everything. I wanted a place that was off the map, some piece of ground that no one had ever walked on. I wanted to disappear and decay in the earth without anyone ever knowing what had happened to me. But that place did not exist. I could never be far enough away.
So I cut myself instead. I cut my arms as deep as I could to let the pain out. I took pictures, so I could always see what I was capable of. I wasn’t weak. I wasn’t nothing. I could bleed hot red blood and still survive. I could do it and not shed one tear. I was brave enough to document it and look at the pictures later.
I thought I was the only one in the world who had created such an exquisite way to express pain. It wasn’t until months later that I found out that it had a name and I learned I wasn’t that unique. I didn’t stop though. I carved words into my skin. I was alone and jabbing at death in the dark. The crazy guy I was living with thought I was crazy. Imagine that.
I ended up in the hospital—I checked myself in. I went there because I knew realistically that I should stop cutting myself, but I didn’t have the desire to stop. I slept even more. I took pills that wouldn’t let me cry even when I wanted to. I wrote angry letters to God and cursed him for forsaking me. I envied the patients with drug addictions. If only my problem was willpower. I could will myself to do anything I had ever wanted. But I couldn’t stop feeling dead. I couldn’t stop not caring. I was angry there. I wanted to punch people in the face. I wanted to punch the walls. I wanted to hurt the people who had betrayed me. I wanted to scream at God. Instead, I slept. And I stared without seeing.
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