In a Year...

 

 

Studio

 

I sat in my small studio apartment. Sat without movement. Sat, contemplating what I would do. It was true that I had very few options. I had so little control over my life. I had never really had any control over my life. But right then, I had even less than I had ever before.

It’s hard to know what to do when your life has fallen apart.

I examined what I had left. I had an apartment. I had that at least for another month. They have to give you some warning before they evict you. I hadn’t received the warning yet. My rent wasn’t even late. But, if I didn’t start working soon, it would happen. I had some food in the apartment. I was sure that my ex wouldn’t let me starve, so there would probably be food in the cupboards again soon. I had all of my belongings. The ex had even let me keep the belongings that we had accumulated together. She gave nearly everything to me, even her blanket and stereo. Of course, she wouldn’t need it where she was going. Not with a rich bitch to take care of all her physical comforts.

I had all of our CD’s and all of our bills. The ex kept saying she’d help me out as much as she could since she wasn’t going to be having any expenses. I had never thought I’d have to keep up the apartment and the utilities by myself. She kept saying she’d keep helping me out, but I wondered how long that would last. I wondered how long it would be before her rich bitch Barbie convinced her to let me sink on my own.

I studied my studio; the studio which was completely mine now. Mine alone. I hated the sight of the off-white walls. I hated the scuffed hard wood floors. I hated the utilitarian metal shelves that held our clothes. Now only my clothes. I hated the narrow doors leading to the kitchen and bathroom. I hated the green futon mattress, which she and I had slept in for the months since we’d moved here. I hated thinking of how, just a short time ago, she and I had slept in that same mattress curled up together. I hated seeing all the missing things that she had taken with her. The few things that were hers alone. I hated the holes in the apartment, which would never be filled.

I went back to wondering what I would do.

Theoretically, I could get a shit job and get on with my life. I could quit pining over her. I could keep going over to my one friend’s house and watching movies and going to the club with her. I could at least try.

More than likely, I’d fail at even that. I’d get a job that I hated that paid barely enough to live even with the ex contributing to the rent. I’d go to the club and get too drunk to walk up the stairs to my shell of a home. I’d go over to my friend’s house and end up bawling and making her feel uncomfortable. Eventually, I’d stop receiving invitations to come over or go out. My only life would come from working a job I hated. Every night, I’d come home to the dreaded apartment and stare at the holes and cry myself to sleep.

My eyes were swollen from crying. It seemed as though all I ever did anymore was cry. My tears had become acidic, and burned my face wherever they touched. Through my bloodshot eyes, I caught sight of the computer that she and I had worked and saved so desperately to buy. She left that as easily as she left me. We had covered up the ugly Kmart symbols with glittery stickers. Even with both of us working and saving, we had still only been able to afford a cheap Blue Light computer that frequently showed the Blue Screen of Death. She and I had taken such pride in being able to make such a major purchase.

I could feel myself settling into a fit of depression. I was unable to control the blanket of sorrow that engulfed me so often. I knew that the depression fed on so many things that I could feasibly control. I could stop being in the apartment so often. I could get a job where I’d come into more contact with people on a daily basis. I could get out of bed and take a shower and brush my teeth. I seemed to lack the energy or motivation to do any of those things. Instead, it was almost as if I, in my subconscious, actually welcomed the tears and wailing that ensued.

I was surprised that I wasn’t feeling the pangs of dehydration by this time, so often had I gone through the cycles of numbness and depression, followed by the tears that would inevitably come. I felt the wetness on my face in wonder. Did I have enough moisture in my body to create them? I could feel the despair building up in my throat. I buried my head in the trunk of a pink elephant stuffed animal that had once upon a time been my mother’s. My sister had brought it back for me after she died.

The racking sobs rapidly became louder and louder. Soon I was nearly screaming in my angst. I hated so much. I hated the blonde bitch that stole my girlfriend. I hated my ex for leaving me. I hated my mother for leaving me. I hated my sister for hating me when I so desperately needed understanding and a mother. I hated myself most of all. I hated myself for becoming ugly and unattractive to my ex. I hated myself for not having any control over my life. I hated myself for doing whatever it was that made my ex fall out of love with me. I hated myself for losing myself so completely in a relationship that had, for the first time in my life, fulfilled me. I hated myself for not knowing who I was without my ex. I hated myself for the state I was in. I hated myself for everything that had gone wrong in my life that I never fixed.

I began pounding my head against the wall behind me, trying, in some fit of insane logic, to let the inner pain out by causing outer pain. If I could only make the outside hurt more, then the inside pain wouldn’t be nearly as noticeable.

In a flash of inspiration, I dug a razor blade out of my makeup box. It wasn’t pretty; it had been broken out of a lady bic, and was nearly too small to get a good grip on. But I was a master at this. This particular blade had never been used before, but it’s twins had been in my hand more times than I could count.

I studied my arms and legs, looking for a place that wasn’t too scarred. Finding a suitable place on my inner arm, I made a long, deep slice near the elbow. Blood began dripping quickly; the cut was deeper than I had meant it to be. I followed it with another just as deep. It wasn’t getting rid of the inner pain, but the energy built up was slowly being released. I cut just as deep as previously, realizing that the pain and blood were better than they usually were. The deeper the blade went, the better. The saner I felt. I was going back to feeling numb. Numb was preferable to the insane howling that I had just left.

Blood was falling on the floor. Dark crimson spots all over the dingy brown of the hardwood that had never seen a mop in the months we had lived there. The sight of the many dribs of blood made me feel calm. But I still wanted more. The cuts on my inner arm were already beginning to clot. They were leaving gummy trails perpendicular to the floor. I licked the inside of my arm, liking the taste of my own blood, and feeling it coating my tongue and teeth with stickiness, like eating a caramel.

I made another slash lower on my arm, near my wrist. For some reason, it wasn’t nearly as deep, and bled nowhere near as much. It was as if something were holding me back from hurting myself too badly. This frustrated me. It was as if I were in a fight with myself.

I studied my wrist. Noting how the veins were raised like worms under my skin. They were a pale, smoky blue color. My heart began pattering at the thought of slicing open one of those veins and finding out how much blood would come out of it. As my heart beat faster, and my blood pressure went up, the vein became even more pronounced and tempting. I knew what it would mean to slice open my vein. I knew that it was irreversible. I could cut my arms without consequence. The scars would fade, but even if they didn’t, scars were a small price to pay for the numbness.

This wasn’t the first time I had considered suicide, but perhaps it was the first time I had considered it seriously. I had all my life written suicide notes. I never actively searched death out. It was as if I hoped death would just come to me. It wasn’t so much that I wanted to die, as I wanted not to live.

The apathetic way in which I hated life reminded me of the lack of control I had over my own life, and how I had let the control slip away from me. I hadn’t taken charge of my life, so in the end, I hadn’t had the choice of doing so. It enraged me that I had given up so much of my life to be carried along.

I was sitting cross-legged, and blood was spotting my scarred lower limbs as well as running sluggishly down my arm. The scars on my legs were more of a contrast than the ones on my arms. For some reason, my legs scarred brown, while my arms did it in pink. More blood than there normally was. My skin was taking most of the damage the breakup had done.

I wanted control back. There were too many things that were out of my hands.

I studied my wrist again. The vein had sunk back down, my heart not beating nearly as hard. My gaze went to the blade. It was coated in blood, as were the tips of my fingers that held it.

I was calm again.

I did it. Impetuousness won out. Without second-guessing myself, I brought the small razor down on my wrist where the vein stood out most. It began spurting. The cut seemed to open like a river in my eyes. Suddenly, there was blood everywhere. In the back of my mind, I was glad I was wearing only a pair of ratty panties and a shirt I wore when I dyed my hair. I didn’t want to ruin any of my decent clothes.

The cut was huge. The flow of blood was widening it. My heart had regained the speed, which it had left when I calmed down. I was scared, suddenly wondering whether I had made the right decision. I pushed my fear down. I had taken control of my destiny. I would make this one decision for myself.

I began feeling light headed and slightly nauseous. There was just so much blood. For some reason, or perhaps no reason at all, my teeth began tingling. The blood didn’t appear to be slowing. The cut seemed to draw me in, getting larger and larger. It was a hole in my wrist. A hole in my arm. A hole in the world.

I sank into the hole.

Waking up was a series of sensations. My eyelids were heavy, and almost impossible to lift. I had the sensation of almost having to urinate, but not. My muscles all felt slack. My head was raised, and I felt almost like I was sinking down.

Finally, I managed to open my eyes. Directly across from me, was a large painting, or more likely a print. There was a slash of pinkish trim under the painting. The walls were done in a cream colored wallpaper with tiny flowers on it. I rolled my eyes to the right and saw a door with a wire enforced glass panel. Also there was a small table with different pieces of random first aid type articles. Some gauze and sponges. A box of latex gloves. Some alcohol swabs in tiny flat packages. I let my eyes go down, and saw padded restraints on my arms, and underneath one of the restraints, gauze was wrapped around my wrist. I looked to my left and saw her sitting in an armed, padded chair. It was altogether a decent room. I wondered how I was going to pay for my stay here.

She. My ex. She wore no makeup, and her face was bare of any pretense. Her emotion showed in her eyes. Anger and sorrow and disappointment. And worry. Her worry bit deep into me and suddenly; again, I felt tears fill my eyes.

"I thought I was taking control of my life," I whispered to her hoarsely.

 

Copywrite 2002 Trudy Smock