randbaek

I have been struggling with whether to write about this or not. Originally I had planned to; I find writing here to be somewhat therapeutic, which is why i encouraged Sarah to write about it in her blog.

When I actually tried to write about it, I found it far too difficult to do so, I'm not sure why. But since it happened I haven't been able to talk about it truthfully, really truthfully, with anyone. Not even (especially not) my doctors.

So here goes.

Almost exactly one week ago, just past midnight on sunday, I slit my wrists 23 times with a razor blade.

I don't actually remember starting to cut, I sort of came in after I'd already cut myself several times. The blade was from a 5-blade safety razor, so the cuts weren't all that deep. I immediately stopped and began trying to figure out what to do.

The cuts weren't bad enough to even warrent stiches, so I wasn't sure what to do. They were prominant enough they people were going to notice but minor enough that there was obviously no serious intention of ending my life.

I was obviously not thinking very clearly at the time, but my real concern was that This was going to look to people like I was trying to get attention. For some reason this felt like the worst thing that could possibly happen to me, and the potential embarrassment of this situation seemed to overcome all reasoning and logic.

So I decided to keep cutting. Not because I wanted to kill myself, but because I I wanted it to at least look like I did.

As I said, I wasn't exactly in my right mind.

I continued to cut my wrists for several minutes, just for the sake of doing it. As I continued, the stupidity of the situation and the knowledge of the effects my actions were going to have on the people I cared about became paramount in my mind.

I became full of self loathing as I continued to cut myself and continued to imagine what was going to happen with Sarah, with my family, when I eventually stopped, and so I tried not to.

At some point this fear of repercussions, the self loathing and the severe depression that I had been feeling for a very long time before this incident overcame me, and for lack of a better word, I snapped.

My focus shifted instantly and entirely to a genuine desire to end my life.

With every ounce of resolve I could muster I put the blade to my wrist and pushed it in vertically as hard as I could and tried to pull it across.

The blade went about 2 centimetes before it buckled and folded in half.

I actually laughed at first and then became enraged. I tried to straighten out the blade but couldn't.

I could have found another blade at that point, but I was tired, and the last cut I had made, though only a couple centimetres in length, was really bleeding and it hurt. I had lost all my resolve. I was emotionally and physically exhausted, and I wanted my girlfriend.

Sarah tied up my wrists and took me to the hospital.

They sutured my wrist (only that final cut needed any serious medical care) and left me under guard for the night. In the morning they checked me into the psych ward where I remained for several days.

Obviously that's not the end of the story, a lot else has happened in the last week.

But not having told anyone what actually happend, what I was actually thinking as I did what I did, was weighing me down, like a secret I knew I shouldn't be keeping.

I had to tell someone, so I told everyone that's going to read this. I'll see if I feel any better in the morning.

Thanks for listening.