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I stood there, in my bathroom, staring at the stranger in the mirror.  I was there crying.  So much torment in my head and pain in my heart.  The weight of the world was resting on my crumbling shoulders.  Patsy Cline was echoing off the tile walls as she belted out that heartbreaking, familiar, pleading as she fell to pieces.  A fresh package of double edged razor blades was enticing me from the counter with a promise of eternal relief.

The hot water was running, offering it’s aid in my plight, some Aspirin to push the cause further.  I knew how quickly the blood would flow down the drains and far from my heart leaving me pale and cold.  It would be so fast and so easy.  I’d just slip silently into the Great Beyond.

My hands trembled as I slid the blade from it’s case, tears down my cheeks, thinking confused thoughts.  My mind raced over the violent abuse, the way it made me hate myself, mixed with the way it felt to be kissed by a cute boy and laughing with my best friend.  That internal struggle tore my soul apart.  I had to force those happy memories from my head.  If I thought about them too hard, I’d lose my nerve.

There was thought behind the first slice - traveling the length of my vein - making it harder to repair.  I was so numb that I almost didn’t feel it.  Watching it drip, swirling it’s brilliant color with the crystal clear contrasting water.  It was fascinating and beautiful.  And relief would not be too far now.  It created such thick pools that it took several seconds to fully dilute and stain the water.

Then the pain started  to hit and my fingers started to involuntarily curl.  I couldn’t muffle my cries.  I didn’t expect such sharpness.  It’s not like that in the movies.  They just cut, the blood comes, then a few minutes later their internal agony is done.  But that’s not real life.  In real life, there is excruciating pain.

Patsy was quiet now, at least I couldn’t hear her.  The sensation running up my arm was deafening.  Now, I wanted to die more than ever.  And the door opened.  I sat there, in the shower, with my favorite ripped jeans on, donning the Nirvana t-shirt my BFF got me, and a flannel.  My (grand) mom stood over me - “Why Nich-ee, Why?!”  The thickness of her horror was palpable.  She looked down on me - the girl she saved, the daughter she chose, the little girl with wild curls and abundant freckles, and she grabbed me from the shower and put as much pressure as she could.  She screamed for my (grand) dad.  And there they were - holding me when I could no longer stand.  11 stitches and several evaluations later - I was back home.

I don’t know why she came in the bathroom that day.  I’d locked the door.  What was it about this time that sent her to me?  I wish I could thank her for it and apologize for the sight she had to see.  The thought of my own children or loved ones laying there terrifies me.  While I can’t look her in the eyes again - I thank her with my actions.  That was my second chance and I'm not wasting it.