How I Answered the Question, “What Am I Going to Do?” After Another Mental Breakdown
Trigger Warning: Mentions of Suicide, Self-Harm, and Eating Disorders.
On February 19th, I woke up on my living room floor after having slept for two days straight.
A blood-stained kitchen towel lay by my head. My clothes were damp and stuck to my skin. Shit, I left the heater on.
The bustle of the busy weekenders hummed outside my window.
Of course today is the day the sun comes out in Seattle for the first time in months.
Crumbs and chocolate smeared the carpet. My stomach swirled.
I peeled myself off the floor to escape the sounds of joy echoing from the street below and turned toward the bathroom.
Fuck.
Glaring at me was a second hole in my bathroom door — a guilty reminder of the first dent I’d made weeks before when I hurled a baking pan full of tortilla chips in its direction mid-binge.
On the floor, just below the bathroom door, was the kitchen knife I’d thrown and carved the second crevice with.
I wonder if I’ll live to make a third, I thought.
Slowly, I rummaged through the debris on the floor to find my phone. I was dreading turning it on…
