Direction

There are three white scars on my left wrist, and two small ones on my right. But they are of the wrong orientation: crosswise.

Orientation. It comes from the word orient, which had originally meant "to point in the direction of heaven." I am from the east, the orient, although that is a politically incorrect term this days. But if where I live is the orient, which is the direction of heaven, then why does it feel like hell?

I am not suicidal, except for that one day twenty-one years ago.

It is not out of some strong religious belief, nor fear of the hereafter. I don't think I will burn in hell, even if I had known earlier that the slashes, to be effective, need to be lengthwise, and not across, because my Father loves me too much. I do not think he would fault me for a chemical imbalance in my brain, or a brief and momentary drowning in darkness. But there will never be any proving that fact, and I have no intentions of putting the lord my God to the test.

It is a different direction now, of course, I know the correct orientation these slashes are supposed to be: straight down, deep.
I suppose the kinowledge will come in handy one day, but like the my knowledge of Adolf Hitler's birth name, only as some bit of trivia one uses to win a game, and as something with a practical, yet gory, purpose.

Or so I hope.