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Lucy Dupont
In the spring of 2015 I started going to therapy for the first time. I was a couple of months away from going through with a pre-planned suicide attempt for my 25th birthday before, almost at the last minute, I randomly sought help. With a series of unexpected deaths and abusers that lined my mental oasis, the seeds of depression had bore the fruits of fear, self-harm and loathing. Making my peace with God, I counted down the days until I turned 25.
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.
