Written on 20 November 2018
It wasn't the first time she’d done it, and it wouldn't be the last.
She was on her knees, hunched over, cradling her head. She could see spots, bright and flashing, and a high pitched frequency hummed dully in her ears. A single trickle of blood came from the increasingly swelling wound on her forehead, slithering towards the bridge of her nose.
There she stayed, trying to shake the demons. She breathed heavily, trying to stem the urge to do it again. That part of her brain, the part that despised her and wanted to see her destroyed, told her “do it do it do it” and she wanted to do it, if not just to shut it up.
And she thought she deserved it. She deserved the pain, the pain, the pain, and the misery. She deserved every ill thought in her head, every feeling of anxiety, humiliation and misery. Everything. She deserved everything bad.
And yet, the instinct to do it again was ebbing away, and all she was left with was a bleeding head and her sadness and desperation. And she stayed on the floor and cried, just trying to get rid of it. That part of her head. The one that just wouldn't leave her alone.