Prologue

I was nine years old.

I watched my father vomit blood all over the bathroom of our video store.

My dad fell.

I had never seen weakness before. Not like that. And I never saw weakness. That's the only word to describe it. Weakness and hopelessness.

But I don't think he ever meant for me to feel these ways.

Married young.

Married young to make up for the fact that I could never be a part of the church I thought I loved.

Three beautiful daughters.

Three keys to my heart. My life.

It didn't work out.

Married young.

People will never practice what they preach, self included.

I'm Zak. I've built a life on love that I continually want to tear down. I do my best to forget about the past, but here I am telling you all about it.

This is my autobiographical diary of myself. People whose names may know have been changed for my own reasons. 

It's all I live. Welcome to my Diary.

The First Time

"Why is it so quiet? Should I put some music on?" I thought, sitting in my master bathroom, on the carpeted floor, full body propped against the locked door.

 

"No one will ever find me here," I remember thinking, razor blade in hand.

 

"She thinks I'm happy," I said to myself, hearing the acoustics thrash behind the glass door shower in front of me. 

 

Joy was sitting on my couch, three doors down from where I contemplated my escape. The adrenaline hit me as I opened the blade and watched it rip through my skin. 

 

"I don't even remember moving my hand," I thought, staring towards the mirror above, luckily hiding everything from me. Another rip, I look down as the blade penetrates my skin once again, feeling even more brimming with ignorance.

I throw the blade into the glass shower door, hearing the loud crash as I look back down. 

 

I'm bleeding. The blood is spilling from my wrist as I just stare into it, feeling the negativity leaving my soul. Every drop of blood, sinking into my pinstriped slacks, and ridding me of my anxiety.

 

"I am dying, and yet I feel so alive," I thought. And then that thought turned to fear, every new cut bringing more blood, and ultimately, more fear. 

 

"How is this in my hands again? I'm bleeding!" I screamed in panic.

 

Joy comes in. I had sent Sally videos of the blood dripping, ounce by ounce, coagulation completed, with every drop. 

 

"What the fuck are you doing?" Joy says, "Sally is worried to fuck about you!"

 

Joy slapped me on the head and pulled me up out of the bathroom. I don't even know how she got in. But women can do a lot when they are worried about something they love. 

 

"Why did you send Sally those vids? And why the fuck are you cutting yourself? Forget about what Sally feels, what the fuck about your kids?"

 

Joy's words pierced my soul like I'd been struck by lightning. 

 

"She told me to cut deeper next time, Joy. She told me to cut deeper."