“I am not my meds”

Project Description:

Razor blade

Scissors

Paper clip

Broken glass

Exacto knife

Left wrist

Right upper arm

Hips

Stomach

Left forearm

Thighs

My pain needed to be physical. If my pain could only be physical, then I could control it. I can’t control my brain’s constant production of crippling apathy, of self hatred, of panic. I can control how pain shapes my body: through my scars.

One night, I sat on my floor post-panic attack. I held my Exacto knife above my head and let go, releasing the knife and watching it plunge into my thigh. Delight. Knife up again and release. Ecstasy. I stared at the spillage coming from my wounds in the mirror. Good work. The next morning, when I woke up and my sheets were stained with my blood, I hated my self, but I loved my power. Look at what I can fucking survive.

The first person I told did not believe me. Admittedly, I was in a highly emotional state when I told him (see what I did that there? Qualifying statement, again. See what people can do to you?) I let the words slide out of my mouth and hid my face. The next morning, when we spoke again, he mentioned my words. “And then you tell me you used to cut!? I don’t know what I’m supposed to believe from you anymore. I know not everyone has scars, but I’ve never seen any signs from you.”

I shattered.

I exposed my forearm and gave him his proof, keeping silent about the fact that I had never told anyone because I feared they would not believe my pain. You’re just being dramatic!

Cut to one month later slice and dice until I have new scars as proof exacto knife stuck in my upper thigh and in swoops ZOLOFT to save the day!!!!!

My superhero. Antidepressants that pull me out of my darkness and show me what I’ve been missing for most of my life. I see a body that does not need to be in pain.

Remember that girl, back then, who felt full of light and beauty and imagination? I love myself 75 mg every day.

I am hidden among lies. Very detailed but casual lies, that’s the key. I scraped my arm when I was moving those fake trees downstairs. God, I’m so bad at shaving my legs. Yeah, I must have gotten that from a branch or something when I was out running the other day.

Pills? What pills? I love myself and d o n ’ t n e e d p i l l s . . . ?

Screw it. The world is looking beautiful again.