Many years ago in Nashville I had called the suicide help line. It was late at night, I was wandering the streets, and I had a razor blade. I just could not bring myself to cut my arm deep enough to break a vein. I did, though, scratch up my forearm until it was a bloody scabby mess. I found a pay phone and called the number. I didn’t know what to say. Dude on the other line asked what my problem was. I said I didn’t know, cause, ya know, I didn’t know. So he gave me the, “quit wasting my time, we need this line open for people with real problems.” I hung up. Some times I get to feeling like I should call them again, but then I remember what happened last time, and I dont.