Euphoria

I am a writer. Not professionally; that is my biggest unfulfilled fantasy, to write for a living. No, I write in the loosest sense of the word. I jot down my feelings and impressions; the life stories of those who don't exist; scraps of life that can be savored or discarded, depending on my mood.

I have struggled through the requisite issues all writers must face: lack of inspiration, creative roadblocks, feelings of isolation, perfectionism, depression. Basically, I am anything but "normal", whatever that means, anyway.

Depression and self-mutilation have played unbelievably huge roles in my life, a fact I am finally coming to terms with. A few months ago I was sitting in class and watching a video with everyone else. The video was about eating disorders and one of the girls in rehab for anorexia confessed to being a "cutter". Most of my classmates were appalled. Why would someone want to hurt herself? I, however, merely slouched down in my seat and tried to keep my emotions to myself.

While the rest of the class discussed how disgusting her behavior was, I wrote my reaction down:

Euphoria

I hear the snickers around me
As I sit at my desk,
Alone,
Watching as tortured girls
Shuffle across the TV screen.
“I cut myself,” they confess
To the cynical ears of those around me.
Immediately, I become
Isolated,
An island in the ocean of faces
Filled with horror, shock, disbelief.
My sleeves come down — slowly, silently —
As they cover my arms, my hands.
I cross my legs, as if covering the scars
Can make them vanish.
I shift in my seat and pray for the bell to ring,
Releasing me from this purgatory,
This suspension between reality
And my memories (fantasies?)
Of razors, thin trickles of
Crimson,
Running down my thigh.
It all floods back to me —
Depression, tears, cutting, euphoria.
I keep myself from covering my face
And brace against the overwhelming urge
To do it again…