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Sal watched as the crimson liquid dripped down his arm. The sting felt nice. It soothed the storm in his stomach and eased the pressure behind his eyes.
It was just a bad day, I’ll stop tomorrow.
Tomorrow, a day that seemed to never come.
It started off small. Like most things do. Just a bit of itching here and there when he felt stressed. It’s not like it was that big of a deal. Sure, it left red lines on his body, but there was no blood. The skin was still intact. And it made him feel better.
Then, it escalated. One bad day, one conveniently placed pencil sharpener and a makeshift screwdriver. This felt nice. Better than scratching. Seeing the blood drip down his arm gave Sal a sense of euphoria. One that fought back the anxiety and stress that seems to fill his waking hours.
It’s not that bad. It’s not like its self-harm. Self-harm scars. This left no scars.
But it did scar. Maybe not immediately, but it did. Sometimes it took days, or even weeks, but it always scarred.
It’s not self-harm. Its not like I want to kill myself.
Except for those late nights, when a bottle of pills seemed so tempting.
It’s fine. I don’t need help. I don’t trust therapists anyway.
But therapists aren’t the enemy. Good therapists just want to help.
It’s not that bad. Some people, like Travis, have it way worse. I don’t want to worry my friends and family over nothing.
But it’s not nothing. Just because someone else has it worse doesn’t mean the pain is any less valid. Stopping may be hard, it’s a marathon, not a mile, but healing is necessary. And whatever he does, Sal refuses to let his father bury his son.
But his father would only have to bury him if he was dead. And this wasn’t going to kill him.
I’m not aiming for any veins or anything. Just the back of my wrist.
And so, the pattern continued. One bad day after the next. The blood dripped all the same. The pain ebbed all the same. But how sustainable was this pattern really?
I’ll quit tomorrow.
The addict’s catchphrase.