All that pinprick that you thought was pain, all that inconvenience that you thought was misery - it was just a light warm up. You think you know sorrow, you think you know fear. But nothing prepares you for the day you come home early to find your daughter trying to hang herself. And you hold her in your arms as she howls her misery and confusion, you whisper the lie that everything will be ok. And as you hold her you see - something - and later, much later. when you pour her a bath you see the soft skin of her arms is sliced and hacked in a tally of despair.
She needs you to be strong, and you have so many things to sort out now. So you ignore the sink hole which has opened up inside you as you fix appointments and look at new schools and try not to blame the school, the bullies, the advent of the internet. Because you know what is really to blame. You are.
And you have never cut, but you know the feeling of the pain building up, and the thoughts swarming their sinister hum in your head, and the dark things trapped inside that mustmustmust come out, and you know what to do to find that sigh of release. You write.
You write your one sided conversation, carving your lines into the soft blank space.
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