the gun

sometimes i get these intrusive thoughts that spin round and round bombarding my brain like a broken record. sometimes it is a visual image, sometimes it is a repeating word or phrase. for example, the word suicide gets whispered quite frequently inside my mind. usually i understand that it comes from my own troubled spirit, but every once in a while it really seems to be inflicted upon me by outside forces, like when they wouldn't stop chanting, kill yourself, kill yourself. luckily, whoever's behind that hasn't bothered me for a while.
last night it was the gun. just a two-second video clip of holding it to my head, pulling the trigger. over and over and over and over. it's a familiar image, one that persistently haunts me in my darker times. it's more of a response to the death that already lies within. it is the natural result. there's no struggle, just blunt finality. over and over.
this thought comes to me because it is safe. i know i will not be compelled to act. it reassures me.
but last week it was the arm. the soft pale tender inside of my forearm. sliced in perfect parallel lines from wrist to inner elbow, warm fresh blood just beginning to peek out from the incisions. this one is dangerous, because it is real. it is alluring. it begs to be. this image usually comes to me after a sexual encounter i've slipped into unexpectedly, triggering the shame i carry within. the shame that surfaces after the eye contact and flirtation and the drinks and the manic escalation into reckless abandon. this is the me that distracts me from my constant inner darkness. it comes out to play and flirt and live the absolute fullness of life in every drop of every moment. i look back and am embarrassed for her. she forgets that she is crazy. she pushes so far past all limits and doesn't look back to see how people stare and whisper to each other. she takes the respect that once was there, that i worked for so hard for so long to earn, and she rips it to shreds laughing and dancing and she tosses it into the air above her head just to watch it sparkle and fizz as it floats to the floor of the bar where everyone spills their drinks, where people lean down as their insides rebel and become outsides in vile puddles and chunks in the corner, where everything gets scraped up and hosed down and flushed away.
there is no control. when i get a taste of the sweetness of light, i must have more. it becomes an all-you-can-eat buffet of manic rush. i shovel it in, i steal from everyone's table, i gorge myself until i am overflowing. frantically, urgently, quick before it's too late!
and then it is too late.