I was sitting back reminiscing over Easter, when a childhood memory remerged, long lost and forgotten. It was late one night when I came out into the kitchen to observe my mother cutting her wrists with a razor blade, the little thin variety “known the world over.”
Welcome to the super blue Gillette blade. It makes me wonder if these really are the weapon of choice for mothers dealing with addiction. I never understood what the two arrows were used for. But my Mum was right into double slicing her wrists. At seventy five I can barely see the marks on her wrists, thanks to the butterfly sutures that found their way into first aid kits back then.
I still don’t understand why I focus on the blue Gillette blade, rather the blood all over the table, chairs and her clothes. I have theory that we avoid traumatic events and focus on things that appear non-threatening in the scene. I still cannot believe that it was known as a “safety blade”.
I remember doing all the right things, bandaging, sutures, compression, sitting and talking to her until she had calmed down. They were not deep, but still a cry for help.
Over my childhood my Mum blamed me for her marriage, not once has she ever taken responsibility for the act of consensual sex. It has taken years for me to come to terms with the impact of home life.
Looking back at this very personal moment, I can reflect upon the caring and nurturing traits that are still with me to this day. It was not the right way for a boy of twelve to grow up. I am still surprised I made it this far.