Cut Part One

Friday was Day 29 since reducing dose. The last couple of weeks have been harder. The withdrawal seems to have abated, so my fear is this is the underlying illness surfacing. Friday night was a climax, a breaking point, a crisis.

We spent a long weekend visiting H's sister and her husband. We have a laugh, catch-up, drink too much, dance a bit. All was reasonably ok until my head just wanted to stop. It was about 2230, perhaps 2300, and having been dancing in the living room I went off to the kitchen. I poured away the contents of my umpteenth glass of wine and started to make a cup of tea. In the other room the laughter, music and dancing continued. I wanted it all to stop, to go away.

As the kettle boiled so did my emotions. I was unhappy, impatient, intolerant and angry. H came in and we exchanged words. I cannot remember what exactly. I know I said that what was going on in the other room just wasn't what I wanted to be doing. She was drunk too, and told me this was her escape and asked why I had to spoil it?

I snapped back – 'I cannot escape from this' jabbing my forehead with my finger. She cried and I could do nothing but watch her return to the other room.

I went upstairs, sat on the bed, saw my penknife. I cut. Slash upon slash on my arm, inner and outer. Deep enough to bleed, shallow enough not to scar. The pain was a warm glow. I did not cry. I turned off the light and fell into a drunken sleep.