I crushed the disposable razor in my right hand, setting free all five tiny, exquisitely sharp blades into my palm. Spreading splotches of wetness on my collar told me I was crying. Sobbing, gently. I peered at myself in the bathroom mirror. The reflection looked hollow to me, blank. Underweight? Underslept? Anemic? I didn’t think I was much to look at. I hated the image peering back at me. Blood seeped through my fist, alerting me that just breaking the razor in my hand like that had caused injury. Frightened, but only a little, I wondered what was going to happen next.
Fortescue EB. Mercy. JAMA. 2015;314(12):1231–1232. doi:10.1001/jama.2015.7653
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