Hide the Knives
Trigger Warning: mental health symptoms of psychosis
This mental health story is so cringe-worthy that I don’t even want to write it. I get a clawing, cloying sensation at the back of my jaw at the thought of it. This also means I’m compelled to write it, that it must be written, that someone somewhere knows the feeling and needs to know they aren’t alone. More resources linked below.
I always used “lock up the knives crazy” as a measurement of lunacy in my personal world–that is until I became the one who needed the knives locked up. I too believed that I would somehow snap out of it before slitting my own neck or that my family would have time to protect themselves if the sharps were put away far enough. I too was afraid that I’d grab a knife and hurt myself out of the desperation of pain, physical and emotional.
By this point, my sister had begun hiding the butcher block of kitchen knives in the tallest cabinet of her kitchen so she wouldn’t get up in the night and kill herself or anyone else in the house with them. To get them, she’d have to use a chair, climb onto the counter, pull out the flour and such things to gain access to them. Then each blade was also taped sometimes. She explained to our mother that she didn't think she'd be able to do all that if she were psychotic or something or she’d said there’d be time to run or get help if it happened. While we were talking over the rationale of it all, the kids were still singing “Kiss the Girl” in front of the television, but I just sat at the kitchen table shuffling cards and smoking cigarettes because at thirteen, I felt like one of the adults. After that, whenever we needed to open a package or cut some steak, we all just climbed up there and got them.
It was here, in my sister’s kitchen, which she redecorated over a long weekend of manic activity, she held out a yellow plastic cup out to me.
“Now, you know I'd never do anything to hurt you, right?”
“Uh, yeah”
“And you know I love you.
“Yeah. Hey you’re kinda scaring me”
“Can you just please take a drink of this before I do? I know there’s nothing wrong with it if I can let you drink it, so can you please just take a sip?”
I looked into the yellow cup and sniffed the black-ish liquid.
“But it’s diet soda, and I don’t like diet soda.”
She pleaded, “Oh, come on, Dayna, it won’t hurt you.”
And since I had no real reason not to drink it, I took a swig and gave her back the cup. I opened my mouth and showed her I swallowed it the way hospital staff checks for hidden medication. She paused to look at my grimace, then took her own sip. She then used the rest to swallow a few pills. That day, she told me she felt like I was one of her kids, so she was glad I’d take a sip for her.
To think of it now, it seems like a “here, is this too spicy?” or “does this taste weird to you?” are all in the same vein, but not quite in the same “see if this is poisoned before I take a sip” wheelhouse.
Here’s the rub: I don’t know if I would have come to that same conclusion about knives if I’d never had these experiences with my loving sister who took in all the strays to the detriment of her own physical and mental health. So, I think of my sister, now long at rest from her illnesses, often, but never so vividly as when I walk by my own butcher block of knives now resting on the counter of my home where I am reasonably certain I won’t ever use them to harm myself or my family. So I seek the treatment, avoid the triggers, and ride the mental health waves as they come because mental illness can strike anyone.
Thank you for reading to the end. I’ve put links below for assistance with these issues, but please contact your doctor or local clinic for immediate assistance if needed.
