It was nearly 5 years ago that I slit my wrist with a kitchen knife upstairs in my dad’s home office. I honestly don’t know what I was thinking as this is one of those times when my bipolar brain took over. I don’t remember making a plan. I don’t remember getting said knife. I remember the aftermath. It was like opening my eyes to find a bloody wrist.
My parents came home from the store and I called out to them and they rushed up the stairs.
“What have you done?” they asked when they saw me and the blood and the knife.
You know, you don’t have to wait for a bed in the ER when you slit your wrist?
You also aren’t allowed to go back home.
My mom waited next to the hospital bed as they stitched the tender skin back together again. Then a hospital psychologist came and evaluated me. Then I was locked away in the psych ward. For a week.
It isn’t a time I’d like to relive. There wasn’t really much in the way of therapy – just meds, television, and baskets of crayons.
The best bit, always the best bit, is visiting hours. Luckily, I was living with my parents 5 minutes from the hospital so they came every day. I think it was 6-7 P.M. One day, my brother came with my mother. He had never been to a psych ward and I am sure he prefers to never visit one again.
I can make no promises.
And I guess the thing is – I am the same, but I am different. It is still possible for me to slice open my wrist, and it’s possible I wouldn’t know why. But today, these 5 years later, I am more stable than I was at 28, much more so. I guess I have a little bit more trust in myself – that I will take care of myself, that I can. I have come a long way since that second hospitalization and though the road is still bumpy, I am stronger.
Image courtesy of Stuart Miles at FreeDigitalPhotos.net