A bleeding arm

It happened. It finally happened. I lost control. Total control. 

I was hostile. Enraged. I could have killed her. I wanted to. Maybe. I definitely wanted to hurt her. No, scare her. Actually, I decided it would be better to hurt myself. Yes. Show her my pain. The pain that has been bottled up for a year. For 7 years. Actually, now it has been more than 8.

I shouted. I cried. I begged. Shouted again. Threatened. Scared her for sure. 

I wanted her to physically hurt me. Fuck the emotional part. Destroy all of me. Do you see me? Do you see what I have become? Take me out. Fuck it. I’ll do the hard work. I’ll take myself out.

I guess I already knew. The box cutters were out. Lying in wait. Fun fact: They don’t just cut boxes. I tested this last October. But last year, it hurt and scared me. This year, not trying harder scared me more.

And the rest I don’t remember. Not until she took the “box” cutters from my hand. I think we wrestled. Then I saw the blood. Yep. I was bleeding. I had no idea. I did it. I actually did it. There was almost a feeling of a job well done. A mental pat on the back. Finally.

But I wasn’t done. Actually it was just beginning. I called Ryan. Left a message. I am not OK. Also accidentally called Nicole. Hung up immediately. Phewww. That was close. She would have been so disappointed in me.

I cornered Steph in what was once our office and asked her to calm down. Yes. I wasn’t going to let her escape this. Not so quickly. The cut was just a symbol of what had been happening inside me. I had been hemorrhaging for a long time, but no one saw it. Will they see this? Will they take me seriously? Will she?

Ryan called back. Declined. Again. Declined. I actually wanted to accept but was too flustered to hit the correct button on my watch. Again. This time I answered. Said I was fine. Steph tried from the background to warn him that I was not. 

He was active. He contacted Steph. She wasn’t responding. She also only had her watch. She was trapped. I trapped her.

She seemed shocked. Shocked that I had it in me. Yes, Steph. I was shocked you had it in you last year. I’m still shocked at how you think your behavior was a simple mistake. Oops. An accident. You think you have a healthy relationship. You don’t. You can’t. Don’t you see? You aren’t healthy. And now I’m not either.  You make your problems someone else's pain. That's sick. We are both sick. Any bets on who heals first?

I regained focus. Let’s talk. We became calmer. Not calm, but calmer. No active tears. Calmer breathing. Both of us.

And then a knock. At the front door. The police. Not even kidding. What the fuck. Am I in trouble? My arm. Maybe I can hide it. 

The officer was doing a wellness check. On me. Ryan called. He took action from Ohio. “I’m fine,” I responded. Fine. What’s that? 

She was soft. Careful. Skeptical. I told her we had an argument, but we were calm now. She asked if Steph hurt me. No. Absolutely not. Well, not physically. Despite my taunts and pleas.

She saw my arm. She inspected it. Looked worried. She knew. I’m not fine. 

She asked for my ID. I went inside. Steph went out. I returned. Three women afraid of what was happening. All of us confused. How did we get here? And what’s next?

Steph and I went inside. Waited for the officer. I cried again. I didn’t want to be committed. The animals. Money. I didn’t have time for this. Sirens. Seriously. Fucking sirens. An ambulance. For me. For my bloody arm.

OK. This was serious. Felt dramatic. A little overdone. Unnecessary. Excessive. 

Blood pressure. Oxygen levels. Questions. Information. More questions. “Do this on your own,” they said. “You need help.” I needed help. I needed a lot of things. In a lot of ways. 

If I were to go, would they keep me? I was not sick. Just angry. Out of control. But still bleeding. My eyes locked in on the wound and its adjacent blade scratches. Attempts that failed. Fourth time’s a charm, I guess.

“OK. I’ll go.” Everyone looked surprised. I wanted to go. Maybe this was it. Maybe someone would see me. And my pain. 

I gathered my things. Like heading to grab a coffee. Shoes. Keys. Phone. I left. No goodbyes. My brain dazed. Surreal.

I climbed into the ambulance. Part of me was a kid on a field trip. Getting a tour. But this wasn’t fun. I’m still bleeding. More like oozing. More vitals. More questions. “50-year-old female en route. Lacerations to her wrist.” Nah. My arm. My watch and bracelet were life saving.

Seat belt on. And away we went. No sirens. Not enough blood. I faded in and out of tears. I faded in and out of paying attention to the EMT. He was kind. Patient. Observing. I asked for Chapstick. He said they only had KY jelly. Truthfully. We both laughed. I needed that. He warned me of the ER. The trauma hospital downtown. Expect anything. I was ready for anything.

We arrived. A wheelchair awaited. A line ahead of me. Everyone in need. Rescuers everywhere. 

The second EMT was talkative now. He asked about my tattoos. Each one. Genuinely interested? Distracting my brain? I didn’t care and played along. 

He was from Sierra Leone. We discussed languages and cultures. My favorite topic. Growing up in Africa. Being both African and American. He belongs in two places and nowhere. I could relate. Where do I belong?

An incoming psych patient in a spit hood startled me. Handcuffed and belligerent. Surrounded by police. It didn’t subdue him. Just like the movies. One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. Girl Interrupted. And I am them. Blood still on my arm.

Wheeled into an intake room. More questions. Repeats. New ones. Fake privacy. Everyone can hear. Allergies? Yes. First time cutting? Yes. Sexually active? No. Now everyone knows.

More waiting. My African friend shared a poem. It was beautiful. Fitting for the moment. Find hope. I cried. He wrote it. He was a poet. A writer. We shared that. He shared another. It was powerful. Rough. Hard. I complimented his work. Impressive to say the least.

Wheeling again. I entered the evaluation area. The real tests started. No phone. No laptop. Nothing. Me and my thoughts. Me and my arm.

The EMTs said goodbye. Wished me well. A brief encounter that mattered. I hoped I mattered to them.

Am I in their story? Did they tell someone about me? Picked up a psychiatric patient who cut herself. A writer. A linguist. She needed help. Took her to get help.

I sat alone. In a rubber chair. They took no chances. Alone with nothing except my bloody arm. I couldn’t stop looking. Admiring my work. Yes, I was proud that I made such a bold statement. 

I deserved to be there. With the spit hood guy. He was now in the corner. In a room. Screaming. Crying. He said he was releasing something from his soul. Same, guy. Same. I was relaxed. Never nervous. But sporadically tearful. 

My turn. Three women invited me into the next room. A rubber room. I sat. They stood. Weird dynamic. More questions. Same questions at first. I repeat, “I didn’t want to die.” I wanted to bleed. It’s not the same. Each glanced at my arm. They saw me. They knew I hurt.

I told them why. Why I was angry. Why I was sad. Why I cut myself. Why I wanted help. Why I tolerated unkindness. Why I needed free treatment. 

Self abandonment. Dysregulation. PTSD. Sustained emotional abuse. Touch deprivation. Suicidal ideation. Homicidal ideation. Admitted it all. Everything. Out loud. Documented. My truth. 

They noticed my "remarkable sense of self". Their words. I was already aware. I knew my needs. Unmet needs. It’s painful to know. Ignorance is bliss. Knowledge is agony. Box cutters are sharp.

We were making a plan. I needed help. They could offer help. Ideas. Solutions. Connections. For free, the best part.

I returned to the rubber chair. And met the nurse. She was friendly. She was interested in my arm. Razor blade? Wrong. The cut was neat. But deep. Stitches or glue? Glue. She acted like this was normal. Like we were discussing a recipe. Honey? No, brown sugar.

“You'll have a scar.” I‘ll have a scar. A reminder. Permanently. I'll get a cover up tattoo. A symbol. A nod. A celebration. 

And I waited alone again. Not minutes. Hours. No phone. Just my thoughts. In a psych ward. Freezing. Why is it so damn cold? With a marred arm. No longer a bloody arm. Surprisingly no pain. No aches. No more tears. Calm. Chill. Strangely relaxed. Mellow.

Thinking. Reflecting. Analyzing. Now she knows. I was abused. She abused me. I got to tell 30 new people today. Nurses, doctors, EMTs, police officers, administrators. And eventually my Uber driver. Now they know. 

Wow. This is content for my book. What a story. My heart bled. Then my arm bled. She can never deny this. It's documented. Facts. Not conjecture. 

I called Ryan on my way home. A hero. He knew what to do. A friend. A real friend. A keeper. Someone to cherish. He saw me from hundreds of miles away.

Arrived back where it all started. She was still there. Waiting to see me. To see my arm. She bought me groceries. Food. Beef. That mattered. I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten. I had been busy bleeding.

She hugged me with one arm. Her style. I hugged her back with one arm. The other was wounded. Scarred. The blood was gone, but the impact remained. Finally, I only gave as much as she did. I did it. I finally did it.