The Experiment. Capital T, capital E. Despite title, it’s not a actual experiment. Well, I suppose it is. The Experiment is on my hand, ranging from my wrist to my knuckles. All along it are cuts, each one for a different thought.  A awful thought, a cruel thought. They are all the same thought on my hand, each nearly identical. The angry red color stares at me. The Experiment is not so much of an experiment as it is a mistake.

I don’t like to look at my own hands anymore, nor any part of me. While they are starting to scar up, I still see the anger, I still see the sadness, I still see the loneliness. It’s a terrible dread I usually can’t shake. Sometimes I think,  Is this it? Is this all there is? Because I feel lost, I feel in over my head, and it’s a drowning feeling I can’t silence. The good days I cherish, the bad I can barely get out of bed.

I keep a notebook, however. The first page has only the words THE EXPERIMENT on it, along with the definition. I bring it nearly everywhere with me, I write when necessary. That notebook is the real experiment, to see if I can heal myself slowly. I document my progress, however hard it may be.

Today felt different somehow. I didn’t hurt, not as much as I had other days at least. I still wrote, because I felt the need to, something unknown I felt to be compelling. But today I didn’t write about sadness, loneliness, longing, hurt, or emptiness. I wrote about hope. I wrote about love. I wrote about joy. I don’t feel healed, no, no, no. But I do feel in a process of healing. I can see The Experiment fading away, the angry red going to a soft pink, and I know the healing has begun. Today is the first day.