I am exhausted.
Days seem to last a lifetime, and merge together in one long, drawn out slog.
At night, I lie in bed, haunted by images and thoughts, praying for sleep. And when sleep does find me, it is never for long. Asleep, I can not escape from the dreams that come.
This is worse than the periods of insomnia I used to go through, when my body would switch to autopilot and my mind to energy saving mode. Sleep beckons and teases me, but in fits and starts it is neither refreshing nor restful.
I can not feel my body anymore, over the ache of tiredness. I don?t feel hunger, or pain, just a constant, dull, heavy nothing. I stopped eating properly weeks ago, and only remember when I feel I am about to faint.
In my mind I run over memories, longing to feel something, anything. I remember that little knot in my stomach, the shaking hands as I look for the carefully hidden blade. The relief when I find it, still where I left it. It feels thin between my fingers, the paper-wrapped metal bends with the slightest pressure.
Careful not to cut my fingers I peel back the paper, only on one side. My hands are steady now.
Quick movements, I know what I have to do.
The blade finds flesh, bites through it. Effortlessly. At first, there is nothing. Then, almost simultaneously, the lines start to appear, oozing bright red life, running down, dripping, while hot, biting pain starts to spread. Relief, I am still alive.
This plays in my head, over and over.
But I haven?t held a blade for years, and to be honest, I don?t think I would trust myself to. Instead, I carry on. Minute by minute, the best I can. But I don't know how long I can do it anymore.