#tbh I'm not in a great mood rn so maybe some real thoughts leaked into this

[bloodyknucklesforme]

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Tags: Nina first person POV train of consciousness, suicidal thoughts, self harm, substance abuse, it's a heavy one, sorry

The year I was born was the year that the government made it so that paracetamol had to be sold in blister packs rather than bottles. It was meant to prevent suicides as opening up individual packs was harder and gave a person more time to think. I want nothing more than to kill myself every time I have to dig my nail in to pop the foil but whatever. It worked, at least from what I've been told, never bothered to actually look it up.

Paracetamol poisoning is lousy fucking way to go anyways. Very English to choose a slow and miserable death. On par with the other preferred, yet slow, method of alcoholism. Nothing beats a destroyed liver and kidneys, I suppose.

I decided years ago how I'd kill myself. I won't mention it here in case someone gets nosy and gets me sectioned. It's not something I dwell on, but it feels like a back up plan, I guess. Like how some women have a secret cash fund in case their boyfriend beats them, I have my suicide plan.

I don't want to kill myself. More out of not wanting to hurt Kyle than anything else. It also seems like too much work most days. Why kill myself when I can drink a bottle of wine and curl up in bed?

There are rough days.

Like a spring is being compressed inside me and one day it'll release in some violent display against myself. I have to gently release the pressure. Always quietly. Always invisibly. Fear of my father trumped all other emotions growing up.

Plucking body hair (avoid the face!) and skin picking and scratching (avoid face and hands!) being two particular favorites of mine. One pair of tweezers can reliably do both. Sit in the tub to clean away any hair, skin or blood. Come out and present myself like the glossy, red eyed girl I am.

It's my biggest secret, strangely proud of that. Kyle doesn't know, despite once walking in on me aggressively plucking arm pit hair out (Do you not own a razor, you weirdo?). Growing up in the early era of "mental health awareness" that hammered in this behavior was not done for attention. That only made me feel worse as a teen, who fantasied whole heartedly about her father walking in on her, razor in hand, who would then fall to his knees and sob out apologies for not paying enough attention to her to notice. I never good at getting his attention in the first place so feeling like it was faux pas only increased my covert skills.

None of that helps with the post pain shame. The patheticness of it all. If I was a man I could simply punch a whole in the wall and break my fist. I don't want any more pity. My family is already dead.

Everyone looks at me different now. i try to act like it doesn't bother me and most of the time it doesn't. I'm not really friends with the rest of the staff at work.

It's Kyle though. Twenty odd years of friendship and he looks at me differently. I don't know if its pity or something else but I hate it. It's like he gets sad looking at me. I don't want to be that. Sex was never rough rough but now its like he doesn't want to break me, like he's afraid to touch me.

We broke up. I couldn't fucking do it. It was like chewing glass.

The only person who doesn't look at me differently, abiet he rarely looks at me at all, is Simon. Maybe it's why I let him take me home and basically give him free reign.

I don't have to think about it. I don't have to worry about him telling me he loves me. I don't have to worry about disappointing him. It might be because he doesn't actually like me so nothing I do will make him think less of me. I can just lay there. He does the work to make me cum and that's it. Wears a condom without complaint too.

It's easy.

He doesn't stay the night, which is fine, I can just enjoy myself with a bottle of wine in bed.

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