mad as a march hare

I’m so tired now. Tears well up dozens, maybe hundreds, of times a day. Sometimes an eye-full falls and that’s it. Sometimes streams flow and don’t stop for hours until I’m spent. I have no desire to do anything any more. I sit, I watch TV if I can be bothered. I lie in the dark, wet sheets covering me for coolness resting on a pillow salt-water damp and heavy. A fan hums and covers the noises outside of people chatting and interacting and laughing and shouting and of children playing and grandmothers cackling and men cheering as a goal goes in. And over and over in my head, accompanied by the thrum of the fan and the rhythm of me rocking and shaking like the madwoman I am, I whisper I wish I was dead. I wish I was dead. I wish I was dead. I wish…

To try and stop the cutting, which is getting out of hand, my stomach now a mass of thin red lines spotted with dried blood and covering thin white lines of old, I draw on myself instead. I use a permanent marker and cover myself in little stark black symbols and phrases. I hope fervently that the stories we told each other as kids about felt pens poisoning your blood are true after all and I draw some more. I lie in the dark with two mobile phones near my head and a tablet right next to it and I hope that reports of brain cancers are true and that mine will be quick. Just enough time to say goodbye is all I need. I know what I want to say. I’ve written the notes. It won’t take long.

I don’t know how to ask for help. It’s too much now. It’s not just a sympathetic ear and a shoulder to cry on anymore, it’s full scale responsibility and that’s no one’s job. So I can’t ask but the desire to brings further tears to weight down my pillow and more cuts and black markings and more guilty wishes that everything would end.

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