The memory is white noise, blocking focus. A habit you thought you were fading out and then, “just one more time.” You knew it was wrong- you even tried to stop. Were you not strong enough?
For others, your self-destructive habit may be a normal, accepted part of life. It may be what they look forward to on weekends. It may be their revival after a stressful day. You don’t know how to explain it to your friends, but it eats you alive until you’re curled into a ball. The hurt simmers, your heart splinters, you’re in pieces on the floor of your tiny apartment. The carpet feels rough against your back, and your shoulders beg to be untangled from your collapsed mess. You gasp for breath. Just one more time.
The tumultuous flashbacks to your most recent moment of shame. The denial of self-love. The urge to prove there is no hurt, and then the need to scream, to yell, to take them by the shoulders and cry, “what have you done?”
From the recesses of your mind come the words you’ve been avoiding. The film that plays over, and over, and over, showing you plans of escape. Not knowing if you’ll ever be able to trust, or to express any kind of intimate love, because of your self-destructive habits that have worn you down like the carpet fibers suffocating underneath your cold body, as you’re shaking on the floor.
You will stand when the tears stop flowing, when the tremors rest, when you’ve exhausted the energy sources of your body. You will smooth the creases of your shirt, and brush your crumpled hair. You will find your breath, go to the kitchen, and stand by the sink. You will stare at the dishes, and slowly wash them one by one.
You will pray that was the last time you will ever think,
“Just one more time.”