Love Never Wanted Me

17

'Breathe, Patrick, breathe. You're okay. You've got this. Come on, keep it together.'

I grip the sides of the porcelain toilet and take in a couple deep breaths. Everything around me is spinning. I'm dizzy and my stomach is doing cartwheels. I just have to keep telling myself that I'm okay and that I just need to push through this. Breathing is the key. Is it helping? No, not really. Just when I think I'm okay to stand back up, I feel another surge in my stomach.

"Oh God," I moan, leaning forward again. I retch and vomit into the toilet, my head completely in the bowl. My legs start to shake as I sink to the ground. After a few more gags, I slowly raise my head and lean back against the bathroom wall. I feel horrible; shit, I was doing so well today! Not perfect, but at least better than other days.

After God only knows how long, I take a few steady breaths and rise to my feet. I take a few steps toward the sink and turn on the tap. As I lean forward a bit, resting my hands on the edge of the sink, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I'm pale (no surprise there) but my cheeks have a seasick kind of green tint to them. The collar of my grey, long sleeve t-shirt is drenched in sweat and bits of vomit have stained the front of it. Jesus, I look like a mess.

I pull it off and toss it aside; I'll do laundry later. As I splash some water on my face, I notice the small, scabbed over scars that now decorate my forearms. There are only a few, and they aren't that deep. Not like that matters, though. They are still proof of what I'm doing to myself.

I've been cutting every day for about a month now. It started on Valentine's Day, after Delilah and I had brought Rose home from school. I felt so awful that day; it was like I was in this dense fog of depression and I couldn't find a way out. Once we were home, I locked myself in the bathroom for a bit. Lilah asked if I was alright. I lied and said yes.

I took apart my razor. I don't' really need it since I don't shave anyone; my facial hair hasn't grown back since I started chemo. Once I got the blade out, I had held it in my palm for a bit and contemplated what I was about to do. After a beat, I sliced the middle of my left forearm and then my right. I honestly don't know why; I guess I just thought it would help with my depression. It obviously didn't.

I shake my head, trying to forget about that day. I need to focus on the now and today; I can't think about my mistakes. Then again, I did keep that razor. It's under the sink, wrapped up in a washcloth. As I'm standing here, looking at my sickly face, I feel the urge to grab it right now. Why? I don't need it. I told myself that I'd have to stop doing this before it got out of hand; I could really hurt myself. I know that.

And yet I want to do it right now.

"God damn it." I mutter as I slowly kneel down, opening the cabinet under the sink. I reach in and feel around for the washcloth. Once I grab it, I pull it out and raise to my feet. I unfold the washcloth and just stare at the razor blade. Should I do it? Just one more cut, it wouldn't hurt right? I want to cut, I do. How bad can it be?

"Hey, Patrick," I hear Brendon call out from downstairs, "You good, man?"

Shit, I almost forgot he was here. I asked him to come over today because I wanted to go over some legal paperwork. My will, actually. There are some details I want to change. I had gotten sick just as we were going over some of the finer details.

"Yeah, Bren, yeah," I yell back, breaking out of my thoughts, "I just need a second." I quickly fold the razor back up into the washcloth and toss it back under the sink. 'Later, Patrick,' I tell myself as I go into my bedroom, 'Think about it.' I grab a clean shirt from my dresser and then make my way back downstairs.

"You okay, man?" Brendon asks as I enter the dining room, "You ran out pretty quickly."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," I grumble, tossing on my shirt, "I just, um, get a little nauseous from time to time. It's the chemo, don't worry about it."