The One Time I Almost Slit My Wrist

P.S: Don’t take the piece of advice I give at the end, I think it’s terrible. Or you can, and let me know how it goes. Just remember Murphy’s law.

It strikes me how the word ‘almost’ demarcates the line between tragedy and comic relief. She almost died. (Thank God she didn’t!). She almost survived. (Eeyah, may her soul Rest In Peace). One word, evoking different reactions, often at different ends of the spectrum of feelings. I think ‘almost’ is a word that mocks effort. What is the point of being almost there, and then you aren’t? It’s almost as if the word has something to prove.

E no mean say make you kill yourself.

I obviously didn’t die. If you panicked too much while reading the post title, then you might almost be a little too slow for my liking. If I did, how could you read this blog post? As an adult, I’m not nearly as dramatic as the childhood version of myself. You know you are dramatic when you can spin premium exaggerated versions of any situation from whatever you find. You shout at me = You don’t love me. You say something harsh in a fit of rage = You can’t be my mother.

In retrospect, I realize how ridiculous the whole situation was and how easily things could have gone left if I didn’t like life a little too much to attempt even a little rough play. But some smart dude (it could have been crack, who knows?) once said that comedy is merely tragedy happening to someone else. In this case, the victim was ten year old me.

I was in my designated suffer spot, spilling major tears in between shrieks of exaggerated woe. How could God send me to suffer? Why am I being punished for a crime I didn’t commit? I don’t remember what my brothers did, but I definitely know that the beating my mother gave me that day didn’t have my name on the delivery package. That’s the disadvantage of being a first child – you get none of the glory and all of the shame. So I was in the bedroom, with beating marks on my body, crying to God and asking him to reveal whether my mother was truly my biological mother (every Nigerian child has to go through this phase, it’s in the Constitution. If you’ve never doubted if your parents are your parents, are they even your parents?).

As a child, I used to be so obsessed with finding justice and balancing out wrongs. I wouldn’t rest until I did. And a major wrong had just occurred against me. So I did a rundown of all the things I could do. Beating her was out of the question. I mean, she just beat me and I didn’t need a sequel. I couldn’t strangle her in her sleep too. God would be angry, who would give me money?😭, my grandma would cry and I wouldn’t have a mommy🥺. Worse still, she could fling me away and beat me again😫. But the chief reason of them all : I didn’t have the mind. I couldn’t also run away. So what could I do? Eureka.

I decided quickly. I’d slit my wrist, so that she’d panic and rush me to the hospital. Then when I was recovering on the hospital bed, she’d be apologizing for doing the wrong thing and promise not to do it again. Plus plenty Ribena and Lucozade Boost. Balance restored. I’d use a razor blade too, minimal pain. Everything seemed covered. It was a perfect plan in my head, zero flaws. Until I picked up the razor blade.

You know that thing grieving people do at burials where they start shouting ‘Leave me let me join him in the grave’ until you actually leave them alone? That was the same situation I was in, but in reverse chronology. I needed someone to come in and attempt to stop me so I could start my charade. I was too scared to leave anything to chance. I mean, what if nobody found me on time and I bled to death? I couldn’t tell God I no mean make e reach like that.😭

Then I decided I was going to reduce the size of the cut so it would be significant, but not deadly. But a bandage could have done the trick, then I’d chop extra beating. For my plan to work, I had to have passed out with a bloody wrist. Proper Nollywood style. So big cut it is. But what if the car refused to start? Or there was holdup on the way to the hospital? Worse still, what if I got treated and then I ended up with a huge ass scar on my wrist? White princes don’t marry girls who tried to kill themselves, do they?

I was not about to miss out on premium future revenge served by knights and decrees. So I didn’t the next best thing; I wrote a letter of how wronged I felt and cried myself to sleep. It’s something I laugh about, but seriously. If you feel really down, write yourself (or whoever) a letter (I didn’t say you should mail it o). Carry the weight of the anger/sadness in your heart and place it on paper.

In the end, what would the letter be worth? That’s left for you to decide.

9 thoughts on “The One Time I Almost Slit My Wrist

Add yours

  1. Love the fact that you are very good with your words and can transfer them on paper because of us can’t, we just bottle it up and sleep or cry in private. Love it anyways 🥰🥰

    Liked by 1 person

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