it's a good day to totally lose your mind

I got up this morning.

I showered.

I got dressed.

I tried to breathe normal.

I put my shoes on.

I put my hand on the door knob.

Then I turned around and sat on the couch.

I gave up on trying to breathe normal.

I texted my boss. Told her I was sick.

I ripped off my shoes and my shirt.

I paced around my bedroom.

I curled up on my bed and called a suicide hotline.

It sounded like I was on speakerphone. The woman I spoke to sounded increasingly annoyed that I didn't know how she could help me. Isn't it their job to figure that out? I finally whispered, "I don't know. I'm sorry." And then I hung up.

I paced around again.

I smashed my forearm into the doorframe a few times.

I went downstairs and looked at the scissors. The really sharp ones I use to cut the Mr.'s hair.

I went back upstairs and called another suicide hotline.

"Hello?" A woman answered. She sounded nice. I hung up.

I stood in front of the window and cried. I wished that first lady would have traced my phone and called the cops. I wished somebody would get help because I couldn't fucking get the words out.

I called the second hotline back. This time I stayed on the phone. I cried the whole time. Sherry was so nice. She told me I deserved help. I didn't deserve to live like this. She asked if I thought about suicide. I told her every day. She asked if I had a plan. I told her I would cut my wrists with those haircutting scissors. She asked if I needed to go to the hospital. Yes. I thought. "No." I said numbly. "I don't have health insurance." She talked to me for a while, she gave me some numbers to call. I pretended I was ok. We hung up.

I cried some more.

I pulled out a big thick sewing needle and started pushing it into the soft skin of my arm. It made lines, but no blood. I tried another needle. It broke through the top layer of skin. No blood. I moved on to an exacto knife. It was dull. I went back down and looked at the haircutting scissors. I pulled out my big butcher knife from the knife block in the kitchen. I pressed it against my arm, not hard enough to cut, and felt sick. I put it back. I went back upstairs and started the circle over again, but this time when I went back and looked at the scissors, I pulled them out. I pressed them into my arm and pushed down. This line looked deeper. Then a tiny bit of blood welled up.

My first cut.

Ten minutes later, there were fourteen cuts on my upper thigh.

The Mr. called. "Are you at work?" He asked. "No." I said. "Are you ok?" He said, worry in his voice. "I had an anxiety attack." I whispered. "Oh." He said. I could see him, his brow furrowed anxiously. "Are you ok?" He repeated. "I'm fine." I said and my voice didn't shake at all.

He told me he loved me. That he would see me at home. I said ok.

I took a shot of vodka.

I wrote this blog post.

I am losing my mind.