my room

The first time i was arrested for posession and consumption, i was court ordered to go to a state "sponsored" rehab center, and move back in to my parents house.  I remember coming home from jail for the first time, and [not having seen the inside of my bedroom or my house in months] feeling so awkward standing in the middle of my room.  I must have stood there for 20 minutes, just glaring around wondering where all my shit had gone.  I felt the same as the times i'd taken too many valium and drank a bottle of cough syrup before school, and got sick in Gym class. 
I'd be so slow changing clothes and getting my shit together in the locker room that the Seniors would already be piling in to the locker room for the next class by the time i was done.  Then i'd be the one, 5 foot tall dorky little freshman, high out of his goddamn mind trying to swim upstream through the one way parade of bigger, scarier kids flowing into the locker room for gym class.  I'd catch an elbow to the gut or a slap on the back of my head...but i was to incapacitated to give a fuck.  i'd just put my head down and keep pushing through the testosterone infused football players who thought it was fun to try and rip my tshirt off in one fluid motion as they passed me by.
I had the exact same feeling standing in my room for the first time in months, staring at where my Who records were stacked, or where the model airplane my Dad and me built when i was 5 used to sit...the only things left were naked slabs of furniture...nothing on the shelves.  No speakers, no notebooks, no comics or action figures.  Not a drawer in my dresser...everything had been torn from my room and replaced with the bones of what had been my LAST resort for a place to sleep at night.
So naturally, after about a day or 2 shit began to hit the fan just like it used to when i lived at home.  Constant screaming and slamming doors.  Knocking holes in the walls with my guitar, I would punch the door to my closet so frequently the paint chipped off and it started to crack in half.  So after a week of me living at home for the first time since i was a little boy, my bedroom looked like a hotel room after Keith Moon stayed the night.  I had spray painted all of the walls, and carved shit into every piece of wood i could fit the word FUCK on to.

After a few weeks of sobering up and constantly fighting with my parents, my manic depression started working the night shift.  I'd just lay in bed all night, staring at the gouges i'd put in my walls, and the paint on the ceiling.  Listening to Godspeed You Black Emperor or some other horribly depressing shit.  Then a few months had passed and my manic depression was working the double shift; day + night...I'd slump through school ignoring all my friends, not eating for days at a time.  I'd just stare at the pages of my notebook and write more heroin infused dribble about fetuses, sunflowers, train rides and towns i'd never been to.
Then one night i was laying in bed with my giant ass headphones from 1984 when i realized the current fabric making up my life was not worth living for.  simple as that.  no talkin me out of it, no "it's gonna get better mannnn", fuck that shit.  This sucks, i don't have to be here.  Fast, logical, done.
So i got up, wedged the chair from my desk under the doorknob [later i realized this was really pointless...] and grabbed the pair of scissors from the radio station mug on my drawer-less dresser.

I sat cross legged on my bed with my headphones on, no shirt, and the only light on was the blue light bulb i had spray painted and put back in the lamp standing on my bookshelf.  I grabbed the scissors by one blade, put the other's tip at the base of my palm and pulled it sharply up my wrist to my forearm.  I didn't open my eyes and switched hands, but as i placed the tip of the scissors under the palm of my other hand i felt a hot sensation on my legs.  I opened my eyes and looked down to find the blood pouring from my wrist down onto my legs and soaking the bed.  I immediately dropped the scissors and curled over my arm putting my head down on the matress, listening to the violin section of some god awful 20 minute instrumental/post grunge anthem.
I remember waking up the next morning being cold and wet.  I woke up so light headed i had to crawl to the chair in my room from my bed only 4 feet away.  I sat up in the chair and realized i'd left the window open all night, and now the cool, damp, grey spring morning was floating into my bedroom.  I unjammed the chair from my door and snuck into the bathroom downstairs.  In awe of my red stained skin i did my best to clean up and not splatter any onto the white tiles surrounding our shower.  I cut the bottom off one of my tube socks and wore it over my left forearm to hide the 8 inch gash traveling lenghwise up my pale arm.
This was the 1st of countless times i decided i didn't want to be here the next day.  One of the only times i woke up in my own bed after a suicide attempt, staring at the shadows cast by the blinds on my floor, or hanging out the window on the side of my house on a rainy morning trying to wash some cold water onto my face.