On many occasions have I imagined sliding down my bathroom wall, burying my face in my hands. Tugging at the roots of my hair while screaming until sound can no longer come out of the contorts of my face. Exhausting myself emotionally and physically to the point at which all that I am left with are dried up tears, a throbbing migraine, and razor blade clutched tightly within my sweaty grip—letting it dig deep into my clammy palms, giving me a taste of the sweet pain yet to come.

I allow myself to continue fantasizing about a time in which I am so desperate for an escape from the depressive purgatory that I relentlessly create within the confines of my own mind. This leads me to dig the sharp metallic edge of the cool blade vertically along the length of my frail arm. The ugly truth of the matter being: I don’t want to die—I’d just like something, anything, to remind me that I am truly alive as I watch my emotional turmoil, this inner hell, warmly ooze out of me in all its crimson glory.

Despite such thoughts, never have I physically resonated with self-mutilation. Nor do I ever offer it any serious consideration. I simply lack the ability to not want to get better. A more intimate form of sacrilege has instead spread its roots— dismembering my very being from the inside-out. A secret optimist that resides beneath the darkness obstructing my judgement, once again, shows face within the midst of my consoles. It manages to power me by screaming that resuscitation of spirit, an emotional being, is indeed possible. Hope will show face—only if I keep dreaming. Only if I manage to keep the blade imaginary long enough.