The Sharp Knife

Chunks of bad memories piled up in my long-term memory. Clustered together, fighting their way to remain etched with power. Power to keep the trauma intact in me. I wish the waves had the potential to wash the pain away. But waves you know they love throwbacks.

A friend of mine briefly told me about a student who was suffering from retrograde amnesia after she met with an accident. She had forgotten three consecutive years of her life. I don't know the details of this incident. I assume the young lady must have had both good and bad memories during that span of time like we all do. Having been students of psychology, we often discussed true stories related to mental health conditions.

I feel amused when I am still unable to cure the mess in my mind. The Masters Degree I earned in Psychology, the marks awarded to me, the praises I received from my teachers for those well written assignments make absolutely no sense to me right now.

A few days back, I took a knife from the kitchen and looked at it as though I was questioning its sharpness. There needs to be a test for everything to prove its talent. I put the knife on my hand and carved a line on my skin. My blood then came out in the open and said "hello" to the world. It felt good. I used the knife again to draw another line on my hand and this activity went on for quite sometime. Inflicting physical pain to release mental suffocation was only a temporary success.

If I could detox my mind or voluntarily choose to cut out those destructive memories I would have. It was identical to a disaster which constantly replayed like some movie in my mind.

See, my body is stuck with that knife beside it. A slit wrist with untold miseries lies hopelessly out there and so does the remaining body. The line drawing business was tiresome, so I finished this story once and for all.

©songbriti