Trigger warning
References to self-harm and suicide. Please see help information at the end of the piece.
I feel like a crumpled piece of soiled toilet paper. I am convinced something horrible is coming for me right at this moment that will destroy everything, only I don't know what it is. I wrack my brain to find some hint of this impending catastrophe, but I can't find any. I want to tear my hair out because MY LIFE IS ABOUT TO BE DESTROYED, and I am SO PATHETIC that I don't even know how, so there's nothing I can do to protect myself. So I do the only thing that I know will bring me relief. I start slapping my face. I hit myself 10, 15, 20, 30 times, each blow harder than the last, until my cheeks feel like they have been branded with hot coal, my hands are ready to fall off my shoulder sockets, my head rings with pain and confusion, and I can barely see. I google symptoms of concussion, douse my face with cold water, and carefully avoid shaming myself by looking into the mirror. I am pleased with my method, though. Slapping is so much better than cutting. It is comfortingly low-profile. Doesn't leave a mess, doesn't figure in research papers on self-harm. Then I go to the kitchen and eat a stale croissant with a disgusting vanilla filling. It makes me want to vomit, but at least it's soft enough for my traumatised jaws.
My heart wants to tear out of my chest every waking minute. I spend half of any given month in a limbo, lying dead still in my bed, not even moving to wipe my face that's a mess of snot and tears, too scared to exercise my cardiac muscles and too tired to care. But the GP I saw last week said there's nothing wrong in my echo cardiogram. Must be anxiety, he said coolly, as if that explanation I have heard a million times somehow makes the nuclear war inside my chest all right.
Must be anxiety means it isn't real. Must be anxiety means grow a pair. Must be anxiety means stop being pathetic.
When the frustration settles, self-doubt floats up. Have I not been a super achiever all my life? Have I not got A+ ratings in important jobs at important companies? Have I not posed for professional photographers so they can make me look cerebral on my employer's website? Have I not exhausted one passport and nearly saturated another with visa stamps? So what if I sometimes write suicide notes as a pastime? How could I have accomplished so much if something was really wrong with me?
Then I remember how I leave hidden markers on my suitcase when I am traveling so I can tell if the hotel staff have slipped something illegal in it in my absence to take revenge for something I did to them that I cannot name. How I never find any proof of tampering, yet I rip open my bags at the last minute before every flight. How I dump my neatly folded clothes in a heap, ransack every crease and pocket for something dangerous I am convinced someone has planted inside them. How I manically shake my cabin trolley for the sound of contraband inside the handles. I hear nothing, which drives me insane because I am convinced it's there. I give up. Then I get to the airport food court and eat a burger – double meat patties – and half a dozen wings.
