Yes, I slit my wrist. A nice inch and a half gash down the middle of my left wrist. Don’t freak out though, I didn’t do it on purpose: my pocket knife slipped while I was trying to open a package I got in the mail. As blood started gushing out, I panicked a little before collecting myself and wrapping my arm tightly with a t-shirt. The dumbest thing I did though (aside from cutting with the knife towards my body instead of away from it - it’s amazing how many of the things you learn in Boy Scouts slip your mind until it’s too late) was making the decision to drive myself to the emergency room, which was only 10 minutes away. I figured by the time I called them and the ambulance arrived, I could drive myself there. And the truth is, I could drive myself to the hospital before an ambulance made it to my apartment. But I learned last night, driving yourself while bleeding profusely from your wrist is not wise. I learned this as I was already on my way though. I never claimed to be very fast on the up-take.
So I’m hauling ass to the hospital when - that’s right,you guessed it - I get pulled over for speeding. I wait in the car while the cop runs my plates and when he finally sticks his big cop head in my window, I show him my arm and he takes me to the hospital in the cop car, leaving my car on the side of the highway.
So I get stitches and everything’s ok, except I don’t have a car, cuz mine is on the highway. I call my mom and have to get the pitying, disapproving looks when she picks me up from the hospital. For those of you who don’t know, I’ve been diagnosed with depression and so my parents’ first concern was that I had done this to myself and tried to cover it up with the story about opening a package. Despite my protests that it was an accident, I don’t think they really believed me until they followed me home and saw the box wrapped in packing tape and twine with my pocket knife on the floor beside it. You could almost smell the relief in the room.
Now I’m at work, where a number of co-workers also know I’m on medication for depression, and here I am walking around with stitches on my wrist. If I get one more pitying glance I may be forced to take someone’s eyes out. I am so tired of explaining it was an ACCIDENT!