Rock Bottom

"You can do it you know…”

I run my hands across the tops of my bare thighs. The calluses from crossfit drag across the sensitive skin.

“You can do it…”

My flesh on my legs prickles from the sensation; goose bumps begin to rise.

“You’ll feel so much better. Come on, you can do it…”

I look at the tattoo that’s on my thigh. It’s a cow skull with traditional sugar skull markings on it.

“Just this one time… trust me, it’ll feel good…”

I got the tattoo while I was living in New Mexico. Above it the phrase “Difícil de Matar” is scrawled. It means “hard to kill” in Spanish.

“Do it… just do it…”

My index finger drags along the faint, parallel scars on my thighs. They are cut scars from when I was teenager. They are the result of inappropriate coping mechanisms I developed as a result of the sexual abuse I experienced when I was younger.

“Just get the razor, just do one line. It’ll feel good. Trust me…” the voice at the back of my head continues.

I have since developed significantly better coping mechanisms. I got the tattoo so I could cover up the old me. I wanted to cover up the stigma of it. I didn’t want to be judged for what I was doing when I was not even old enough to vote. Even worse, I don’t want to be further shamed by my scars because they were the result of something that was already shameful to talk about (sexual abuse).

Cutting was never about killing myself, but rather a means to find release. The way I describe it is like a tea kettle. You get so much build up of pressure, the sweet stinging pain of a razor dragging across your skin acts like a release. Like a pressure relief valve.

I’m here to tell you that cutting doesn’t do anything. No matter how many lines you carve into your skin, your problems still exist. But this doesn’t stop old thoughts from being drawn up. These aren’t hallucinogenic thoughts, they’re the same ones you have within yourself too. It’s the voice inside your head that says you’re not good enough, nobody likes you, you’ll never able to do that, you can’t do that… it’s our own saboteur. None of what that voice tells us is true, and I know this. Dragging sharp objects across my thighs won’t do shit for me, so I get up and eat some dinner instead.

Yes, eating some dinner will boost my morale and help me think clearer… as I said, I built better coping mechanisms.

I am at absolute rock bottom. The only thing I got going for me is my job, but even that I’m struggling to stay afloat. My back hurts from that god forsaken futon, I sold my mustang and my street bike, and now I literally am almost down to just owning the things in my closet. I have no home… just places I sleep. I am slowly stripping myself of every bit of security I own, leaving me a naked vulnerable mess of a human being.

Fuck, I can’t even take drugs or drink to relax as I don’t believe in any of those and I can’t because of my job. A whiskey or a blunt would be fantastic, but once the high wears off your problems still remain.

Alcohol... drugs... cutting… sex with strangers… whatever the hell your vices are, your problems still remain even after, and half the time those vices make dealing with them even worse. Just embrace the suck. Go for a run or something. Eat a bowl of cereal for dinner instead.

I am at war inside myself. All I want to do is scream at the top of my lungs and tell the entire world how wronged I was, but the person with integrity must protect them. I feel like I am being eaten alive from the inside out. The two tectonic plates of my soul are pressing together, shaking me to pieces (but building a mountain top in its place).

• “Why!? Why are you apologizing for her!? She’s the reason you’re sleeping on a futon!”

• “That’s not true, it was my choice to sell my stuff so we could live together…”

• “Look at you, you’re an absolute simp for someone who told you they couldn’t wait to come home and snuggle you the same day they were making moves to leave you…” shows me screen shot.

• “There’s a logical explanation for that…”

• “STOP PROTECTING HER! There’s no reason for all her deceit!”

I’m always protecting the people who hurt me… I don’t know why.

I become very aware of the runnel of sweat dripping down my back. My world begins to spin, the hurt becomes overwhelming. They’re right. The anger boils up again… accusations are thrown, then quickly regretted. Feathers are ruffled and ties are cut. So much for “friends forever.”

BAM! It’s done. We’re nothing but strangers now.

I can’t visualize tomorrow, and that’s a very dangerous place to be.

Regret, shame, and humiliation live together inside my heart. I grant forgiveness shortly after… my friend rolls their eyes at me for my weakness, but is it really a weakness to forgive?

All I want to do is make a powerpoint presentation about how absolutely fucked over I was. It’s true, I could absolutely BASH them in this blog. I could rake her over the coals. I can literally point out how absolutely unethical and illogical every decision she has made in the past 1.5 months has been. I have every single right to hate her, to broadcast to the world how she screwed me over. But what does that solve? Nothing. It’d make me feel better for a moment… like drinking or doing drugs or fornicating with strangers or whatever vice people want… but it wouldn’t solve anything.

I have the absolute power to destroy her and drag her back down to rock bottom here with me. But I’d still be lonely down here, even with company. I’m at the bottom of this lake… but I don’t want you to drown with me. I don’t want you in this pain too. I don’t think I ever want that for anybody who was of any importance to me in my life.

I don’t want you to not be able to visualize tomorrow; I want you to wake up, make yourself a cup of coffee, and go about your day content. I want you to laugh and smile every day, like you used to with me. I want you to have your glasses of wine while you sit and watch TV with your kids. I don’t want you down here with me… I don’t want you wonder when you’ll feel joy again.

You hurt me deeply, but I do not wish rock bottom upon you.

My head is pounding.

I pop my neck.

I fix my crown.

I grab ahold of the ladder and look up to the top.

You have no fucking idea how strong I am.