Everyday I hate myself for being so stupid and everyday I want to get one of the multitude of box cutters I have acquired from work and cut my wrists open.
And everyday I don't.
I cut my hand open about a week ago. The pain I feel when i do it is like bloody penance that I deserve for being so worthless. The scar is dark and runs perpendicular to my thumb. I'm sure no one notices it but to me it stands out, glowing like a scarlet letter, there to remind everyone that I am worthless and weak.
But I know that the majority of these feelings are just the results of a chemical imbalance that I have called bipolar disorder and that with manic depression there must be lows to get to the highs and that, like a nasty wave, i should just rise this thing out.
I usually also think of my wife, who occasionally hits me when I hurt myself. I don't want to disappoint her, so I try not to cut.
But everyday I want to.
Every damn day.