Trigger and Content Warning: Themes of suicidal ideation and self-harm
Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’t lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
- Dorothy Parker, Resumé
I’m impartial to cooking but I am preparing dinner for myself. I’ve never been fond of eating or that sickening feeling of being full and bloated, but I’m starting to get nauseous because I haven’t eaten today - different story for a different time. As my right arm is metaphorically twisted to help nourish me, my right arm is anxious at what it needs to do in order for it to assist the left.
As I bring out the tomatoes and pull out an 8” kitchen knife my right arm grows tense and my palms start to sweat. The weight of the knife all of a sudden feels firm yet alien; it feels almost too comfortable in my hand. I pretend to not stare at the few thin residue scares from bleak years before that faintly decorate my wrist. An hour earlier I had a tumultuous confrontation with a close friend and so my funneled thoughts overturning each said word, makes my mind and body feel separate from one another. I feel distant, but desperate to reach a mental conclusion to the argument so that I can stem the bruised emotions. My obsessive mind can’t move forward without resolution, so it gets stuck in a mental cycle of repeated half-assed solutions. My soul is dying to stop being tormented by the sickly familiar parasite that randomly turns thoughts into a low pressure-chamber.
This is my invisible tormenter.
My depression.
And now, this is my knife.
My wrists look smooth and nervous. My thoughts become more jagged yet defined. Conclusions about the argument, the friend and situation start to form and they all seem to point to some level of finality.
“I don’t want to feel like this.”
“This person makes me feel like this for reason x, y and z.”
“Despite how long we’ve known each other, I have to leave.”
“This person seems unhappy when I’m with them. I should leave.”
“I can’t trust anyone. I should leave.”
“Nothing will ever change. I should leave.”
My very firm logic based off of my misleading perception.
So I glance at my knife rack and quickly take count of all of the sharp instruments that sit holstered, all neatly tucked away and unbothered. For a few moments I almost get lost in re-tidying the rack and kitchen appliances. Absentmindedly fixating on wiping down the counters and ensuring everything is exactly a ¼” apart. Blinking rapidly I gander at the near-dull steel edge of my knife and think about sharpening it. I’ve been avoiding this for weeks, but now I can’t cut tomatoes without ending up with a pulpy mess. It’s taking twice as long to prep my meals. I run my finger along the dull edge and feel absent. So much power in my hands. I quickly survey the flesh on my left arm and note the warm colors and under shades. I note the thin green veins that almost scatter and hide along my wrist. My mind drifts again as it goes into exploration mode.
I freeze myself, gather my thoughts and proceed.
As I thinly cut scallions and mince garlic, I am briefly suspended in a warm centering thought. The olive oil starts to heat up and I can hear a stammering sizzle from the skillet on the stove. The aromas enter my nose and for a moment all I can smell and experience is the kitchen coming to life. It is enough of an interruption for me to get grounded in the present. It is enough of an interruption for my body to cooperate with itself and fill hungry without remorse. I carefully read the next cooking instruction and while my mind is distracted, my tense fingers relax and start to busy themselves with stirring the nearby simmering rice.
In the last stages of cooking dinner I am neither happy nor sad; edgy or calm. I am hollow and hungry. My own thoughts occasionally echo the same pathetically mocking cry of “I don’t want to feel like this” but to be honest, at this point I am starting to get irritated with myself. Tired of my overly intense, self-aware mind. I’ve been yelling that same dumb cry since I was in 4th grade. My state of being is what it is. I had been mitigating and handling the symptoms of major depressive disorder decades before I was even diagnosed – sans therapy and any real treatment plan. I’ve repeatedly been led by the teeth of my soul, and to the edge of my living strength and will, only to somehow not fall over. I’ve craved for death like others crave for more years of life, all the while slowly realizing that my symptoms are not my personality. Just a factor that manipulates it. Just a whispered lie that makes a colored filled world, one-note and monochromatic. Inedible and stale.
Just because my strongest identifiable emotion feels like misery does not mean that I am misery.
Just because I struggle to pin-down the elusive joy and happiness does not mean I’ll never feel the embrace of joy or happiness.
I have never not wanted to die, but I have accepted that that’s just the parasitic depression trying to lure me into a tomb. If I could naturally control this I would, but I can’t. Nor can I control the intrusive random thoughts of me being dragged by a bus, strung-up from a light pole or shot in the head. Everyone daydreams differently and at times for me, my mind forces itself to daydream of its demise. It is what it is. And so, I settle in these truths; my truths. I accept them for what they are and I try to work around them with my toolkit of remedies and therapy. Some days are bad, but many days are rated from ‘feeling nothing’ to ‘being content’, which for me, is a win either way.
Admittedly though, these truths are more annoying than scary. I mean, if your best friend is Casper, at some point you just stop being afraid of ghosts. But still, these truths are too scary for many to hear or comprehend. My truths causes too much pain for others to fully accept; yet somehow not deserving enough for care or acknowledgment. If they don’t recoil at me for feeling and thinking the way I do, than I get pity. Stupid, mopey, pity. Pity is the useless dirt beneath me. Pity means nothing. I continue to live despite my minds obsession with self sacrifice. This is my normal and I am not weak. I am a stubborn survivor that has reigned championed over depression, domestic abuse and death. I demand respect for my fight and for my scars, not pity. See my wounds and accept them.
No one sees my invisible tormentor.
My depression.
But they see my knife.
A knife that I wouldn’t allow in my apartment up until a few years ago, out of fear of how my depression would utilize it.
A knife that now deserves a place in my kitchen for it no longer poses a threat.
A knife that means as much to me as a 1 Year Chip means to someone in recovery.
I freeze myself, gather my thoughts and proceed.
I quickly wave off any residue of triggering thoughts and sheathe my knife as my food is now almost done. My mind might be occasionally evil to itself, but nothing compares to my stomach when it is unhappy. As I plate the food and marvel at the colorful garnishes that gingerly decorate the rice, robust tomatoes and perfectly pink grilled salmon, I take in a hearty sniff and smile at what I created. A new emotion pops into place and for a second overrides my barnacled depression. I feel proud. I feel proud of this meal and of my craft.
I look at my hands. I peer at my wrists. I squeeze my arms and remind myself that they too are victims of my mind. I almost feel sorry for them, for having had to fulfill my more unsavory actions.
After carefully presenting the food on my plate-set in an Instagram worthy spread, I breathe in as deep as I can and marinate in the warmth of the food that a part of me doesn’t even want. Finally settling into my chair, I say a prayer and eagerly dig into the fruits of my labors. Flipping on the television I get lost in a movie while I eat, nearly rolling my eyes at how mundane yet intense today has been.
Another day. Another evening. Another dinner. Nothing out of the ordinary to write about, if not for being made to write about it.
I freeze myself, gather my thoughts and proceed.
Lucy Dupont is an avid traveler, cultural lover and explorer of the connection between the mind and body.
If you or someone you know is suicidal or in emotional distress, contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (1-800-273-8255). Trained crisis workers are available to talk 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Your confidential and toll-free call goes to the nearest crisis center in the Lifeline national network. These centers provide crisis counseling and mental health referrals.
If you live in Illinois: The Call4Calm program launched by the Human Services Mental Health Division provides residents wanting to speak to a mental health care professional. For this free service you can text the word “TALK” to 552020.
Cover Photo: Andy Warhol