Believe me, a glass in the kitchen and I have to contend with the tempting shards.
I can see the neat line of cuts up and down my arm, see the blood spilling over, feel the smart of pain. The only thing stopping me is the disapproval of others—if I had my way, I’d be cut 100 xs. I remember in High School, when I played competitive tennis, the welcome sting of my wrists every time I flexed for a backhand or overhead: the constant, painful reminder of how I hurt. Now? It’s a matter of who I hurt: Christopher, the kids, my doctors. But what I really long to do is tear into my arms. All I’m doing is delaying the inevitable.
Inevitable. My arms cut up and open. Where I’m headed. No point in pretending I don’t hurt. No point in pretending I’m not crazy because that I how I feel. Utterly outside myself. Trying to BE cheerful and happy and together and organized and stable. But. But. But. All a pretense. Trying, trying to be present, to be seen as stable, to be a good mom, a good wife, a good friend, a good human being.
What can I do? Feign good health, good humor? If I can pretend balance, maybe I will achieve balance. All of it bullshit? Necessary lies?