Hello old friend...

TW: Self Harm!

There's a razorblade on my bed.

I don't know when or how it got there. I might have brought it in from the bathroom accidentally, or maybe it fell out of my travel bag, or I've forgotten to put it away when I was sorting out other things. Maybe, subconsciously, a small part of me knew I had left it out. But either way, it's there, and for the first time in a long time, it's staring at me like a dear, old, forgotten friend.

The truth is, for a long time now I haven't had to worry about razorblades. For so many years their presence in my everyday life is as commonplace and arbitrary as my hairbrush, or coffee mug, so that I haven't paid a second thought to having them around. I have derma blades in my cosmetics bag, shaving razors and cartridges in the bathroom, razor knives around my creative workspace, heavy duty blades in my DIY toolbox, a pocket knife in my bag. Sharp objects, all around me, all of the time.

Yet, there was a time when that wasn't the case. Once upon a time, there was a broken version of me that had a twisted, toxic, obsessive, relationship with blades.

Back then, when I was in a "good" place, I would actively avoid the sight or mention of a razorblade with paranoid fear. Like an alcoholic fighting for their sobriety, I didn't trust myself to even be in a room with one, and my every waking hour was a mission to keep as far away from them as possible. I was fighting an addiction, but at least I was fighting it, and I told myself that made me okay.

However, on a "bad" day, a razorblade was my sanctuary and my saviour. I would thrill for the hunt to find one, hoard it with lustful greed, admire it longingly and hide it away as my precious treasure. I would spend my days fantasizing about when I could next be alone to feel that blade against my body again, and let go of all of that stress as the blood streams from my freshly exposed skin. I'd cut so deep that I'd bear those scars forever, and not think twice about it. I learnt the hard way how to fix, hide, heal and conceal my ever-worsening wounds, and I'd enjoy the thrill of that too.

But that was a long time ago. I'm not that person any more. It's been a long eight years since I kicked the habit, and even six years since I slipped up (just once). I'm proud of my recovery journey. I'm proud of my healed skin and mind. I'm proud of my healthier coping mechanisms and my ability to speak about the issue with others, to support and educate them.

Except... There's a razorblade on my bed. 

And I'd completely forgotten what it felt like when such a little, deadly, object ruled my world.

At first sight of it, I couldn't speak. I couldn't breathe. It shouldn't be there, not now, not when I feel like this. I looked away like I had been caught peeping. But slowly, surely, and without realising it, curiosity overcame me. I lost myself. So, for the past hour, I've sat here alone in a quiet room in my t-shirt and underwear, just looking at it.

Before long, old emotions and dark thoughts crept back, dusting themselves off and shaking away the cobwebs as they step forward from the darkest recesses of my brain. And all of a sudden, I wasn't just looking any more.

I've picked it up and put it back down, and picked it up again, more times than I can count. I've twisted and turned it between my fingers, admiring the glimmer as the light glances across its surface. I've stared at my blank canvas of exposed skin, so much skin, and imagined the art I could do. I've pressed the blade against my thumb, testing the sharpness of the edge, pushing down gradually harder and watching to see if it breaks my skin. I've waited for that familiar pang of pain to jolt me into stopping in my tracks, and smirked to myself with twisted pride when it didn't come. 

I've wondered about, and desired, and been tempted by, and fought against, the feeling of drawing that sharp edge along my skin. I've hovered it above the softest parts of me - a pale roadmap of blue veins barely concealed under the surface - and waited with bated breath, for the familiar drag and sting as it slices through the surface. For the hot, fresh, crimson blood that flows freely in its wake. For the instant, exhilarating feeling of calm relief with each new line drawn on the canvas of my body...

But it never came, because I'm not going to do it. I know that.

This isn't a post about relapsing or struggling with those feelings again. I won't throw away all of the hard work I've done to get to where I am today, for the sake of one bad night. I refuse to go back. I've told myself the same lines and words of affirmation, so many times now, I can recite them without thought. I believe them. I know I've got this.

Only... There's still a razorblade on my bed.

And so am I. And I don't know how much longer we can both sit here together, alone, without the temptation becoming too much, and us falling back into our old toxic love affair.

So instead, I'm writing about it, and right now that's occupying my hands and my brain and processing all of the thoughts and feelings currently overcrowding me. It's giving me the confidence and the inner-strength to handle the situation. It's empowering me with the belief that I've got this.

Once writing this post is over, I'm going to get up and one of us is going to leave. Because right now, myself and razorblades, we can't be together. We're toxic. We're over.

I'm long gone and moved on, and I will never go back.

So this isn't a sad story, or a cry for help, or a warning.

It's a win. It's an empowering expression of talking about my issues, applying healthy coping mechanisms to process and channel those dark feelings and temptations.

Because I've got this.

And there's no longer a razorblade on my bed.

Thanks for reading, over and out.