I think I could get in touch with my feelings better if someone stabbed me.
A psych experiment — that didn’t end in murder — so I could test my theory.
Ever since starting meds, which have (graciously) stopped my desire to die,
My range of emotions is contained by a dam, and I can’t enjoy a good cry.
A stabbing is jarring, it’s violent — an event that might flood the dam.
With blood gushing from me, surely I wouldn’t dully compare it to jam.
This sounds petulant, I know. Me whining, “Boo-hoo me, I can’t feel down.”
“Suck it up,” you say, “Least you’re not dangling a foot off the ground.”
The various meds are worth their side-effects — a long list, too — I do not disagree.
But my dog died. Then my cat and my plant, and I’d like to have shed a tear (or three).
The second benefit of being stabbed would be the enduring cache of the experience.
While sympathy for the mood disordered is fleeting, being stabbed promises resonance.
It could be a knife or ice pick — I’m not choosy, so long as it’s new and clean.
As a reminder to others who quickly forget, I’d like scar tissue that’s easily seen.
In the tragic event that my stabbing doesn’t produce my overdue tears,
I plan to squeeze wasabi up both nostrils to settle the balance of arrears.
~KE
