Thread: Some days, I don't know myself

Something that came out of a dream, and perhaps my most recent struggle with depression. Just a fun bit of writing to try to explain to a friend why I don't like potato peelers. The white porcelain of the bathroom always aggravated her. Just stepping into this blindingly sterile environment brought bile up to the back of her throat, day after day after day. No color, just white. White tile floor, white tiled walls, white painted ceiling, white toilet, white bath tub, white shower curtain, white towels, white bars of soap on the white sink top. Even the toothbrush holder held her white toothbrush. Silver offered little excitement to the scene, and any clothes left on the floor were gathered up quickly enough and deposited into the white laundry basket. Standing in this room, even the pale of her flesh in the mirror seemed vivid, alive with color. The shock of her green eyes and black hair in this setting always surprised her, making her feel as if she were trespassing, when in fact, it was just her bathroom. And like every morning, she stands naked in front of the mirror, those bright eyes focusing in on every little flaw on the outside, because otherwise, she'd be thinking about those flaws that run so much deeper. The reasons why she lets those she cares about trample all over her. The reasons why she blames their actions on herself, on her personality. The deeply rooted low self esteem that makes up every young girl. The self loathing that fills every heart so desperate for a fairy tale love to distract from the pain of not being happy with oneself. The sort of love she couldn't find. Because it was so easy to fall for her pretty face, her flawless skin, her thin shape and modest curves, but the interior? Well, that was much harder to love. But today was different. Her body was free of angry red marks, not a scar of past blemishes adorning her milky white skin. Not a day past her by that she did not think about the sensation of a razor sliding through her skin, the heat of the cut later in the day as the fabric of her clothes rubbed at the wound, that delightful secret indulgence of pain for the sake of pleasure, of release, of the physical form matching that of the emotional. But she had thrown away her favorite means, and today, there was a replacement. On the sink, that damned white sink, was a silver handled potato peeler. It had taken her longer than anticipated to find one that was properly sharp, but this one, this one would accomplish her goal. Today, the white would recede. Today, red would be the color of choice. Today, her physical form would match her emotional state. Picking up the previously innocent kitchen utensil, she places it against her ribs, pushes in and drags the blade down. The pain is dizzying, and even with her braced stance, the girl sways, but her determination stays true, as a flayed bit of flesh falls to the ground, much like a peeling, but messier. Blood gushes forth, rivers streaming down her bare legs, puddling slowly around her toes as she moves the peeler an inch over, to the side of her stomach, and she repeats the process. An hour later, and her hand is shaking, as she struggles to press the blade in once more. She had long since lost the ability to stand, a bloody hand print on the tiles dragging it's way down to lie on the floor next to her, useless. Her now sickly pale skin, what is left intact, is stained red from the blood slipping from the ugly, gaping wounds left all around her body. Strips of flesh litter the area around her in hideous lumps. The sting of sweat finding its way into the gashes is a welcome change of pace, the sting a minor distraction from the dull ache of the earlier wounds, though nothing could keep her mind off the agonizing pain as she digs the blade in once more, carving a slice out of her flesh. Down the stairs, a shout rings out. Her name. Possibly parents, possibly a concerned friend, perhaps even her most recent loved one? She couldn't make sense of the voice, her head had grown fuzzy. Shock was likely setting in. Falling forward, she crawls as best as she can across the clean white bathroom, leaving angry streaks of red across the tiles. With great effort, she hefts her body up and over the side of the bath tub, curling up comfortably in the porcelain, her cheek searingly hot against the cold surface. The exertion had her blood flowing again, rivers making their way down to the drain, a little more color in this hated bathroom. A final thought, and with some difficulty, she traces as best she can in the mess she had made getting into the bathroom, Love me now.