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God, I feel so much better.
Striving so hard not to continue with my… therapy was driving me insane.
I need it, there’s no way in hell I’m giving it up.
Blood, a smoke and AFI are the only things that can always make my day.
I needed it bad.
The blade shone under the artificial light of my lamp, it was lying there on the desk, right next to my glasses, where I put it.
I put it there just to look at it. I love my blade, and it loves me.
Yet, somehow, something was still holding me back. Do you really need this?, said a voice in my head. Please, not again, it went on. It was begging me. That must mean that my common sense is in there somewhere. But I don’t care.
The blade is so much more charming than my common sense. The blade gets me blood, and blood gets me relief. What does my common sense get me? Nothing, and besides it’s just so exhausting to listen to it.
I took the blade in my left hand and held it so tight I thought I was gonna break it. I started to gently caress my right arm with it, and it felt so right. I caressed my face, wishing I could disfigure myself there too. But that would give me away, and I can’t let that happen. What am I to do if I can’t have my therapy?
I started searching for the right place to cut. It’s summer, so I can’t do it on my arms or legs. I pulled off my shirt, thinking of cutting my belly, or maybe my breasts. But then again, it would show. I was running out of options. Then it came to me, like a thunder in a sunny day, and I found the right spot.
I pressed the blade to the lower part of my hip.
I didn’t cut right away. I wanted to enjoy the moment, the power it gave me to have the blade once again in my hand. It’s like Sweeney Todd said in the movie: "at last, my arm is complete again."
My breathing sped up and eventually it became uneven, as usual. I've suffered from panic attacks since I was a child, but this wasn’t a panic attack. This was excitement, anticipation. This was the greatest feeling in the world.
And I would never give it up.
I finally cut. One, two, three, four, five. Blood started to run down my thigh, and I felt alive again.
It had been only a month since I last cut, but it felt like a million years to me.
I got up from my chair, my leg a bloody mess, and headed towards the bathroom to clean myself up. Though I didn’t really want to do that. I love blood, I wanted to lie there drenched in it all night. I actually wanted more.
But I couldn’t, it was too much already. I started feeling a little dizzy. I figured I should stop the blood, so I took a towel and pressed it to the wounds. It quickly got half red with blood. I took it off, and I still wanted to cut more. I wanted to cover myself with bloody wounds. I wanted to feel relief, that kind of relief that only cutting can give to me.
But I needed to be rational, if I cut more it would surely show, and that would be the end for me.
So I washed my leg and dressed the wounds. I looked for band-aids but none of the ones I found was big enough, so I just left the wound uncovered.
So now I’m here, smoking and listening to Morningstar by AFI, to try and slow my heartbeat. Davey’s voice always helps me, he actually saved my life a fuckload of times with his amazing lyrics and his singing.
I want more. More blood, more cuts, more relief.
It’s a circle, see?
I hate myself, so I cut. But then, when relief wears off, I feel bad because I cut, and I hate myself even more. So what do I do? I cut again. And the circle continues evermore.
And now it’s 4.30 am in the morning here, so I should probably go to bed.
Though I know I won’t sleep, just like any other night.