Used to think the worst thing I have ever done happened eight years ago. Me, undiagnosed Borderline, so deep in self-hatred that I let myself to sink into the slime of so many other corpses. No one, but one person, knows about that night, not even a confessor. Used to feel so ashamed but that one person showed me compassion, offered acceptance. No more Leviticus cry of “unclean, unclean!” In that listener, I found mercy.
Ironic that I did not show mercy to this healer. Instead, let my self-loathing spiral out of control day after day. And then on that worst night, even after I pleaded with my dead Play Brother to help me not panic, I gave in to my uncontrollable fears and rage against myself. Drank. Fell hard on the hotel room floor. Ranted and raved at the one person who has accepted even my worst self. Slashed razor across left forearm but so lost I could only scrape skin, not draw blood. Threw phone against wall once, twice. Tore bedding off beds. Ripped head off little wooden bird. Pulled dirty clothes onto bare skin. Drove fast, fast. Ran into brightly lit store and was glad when no one stared. Wrote more lies. Drove back, sobbing to self, telling self to drive to nearest bridge. Clawed my bloody heart and mind. Told myself lies. Cried myself to sleep.
There is no greater sin than to hurt the ones we love.
Cried in the confessional today.