Last night i was blogging about skyrim, now i’m trying to kill 6 minutes before a meeting without killing myself. And I hate that i’m blogging to distract myself. And nothing makes sense. But i can’t make them sad, and i don’t want to tell anyone. But i can’t keep talking to myself. but god i don’t know why im doing this. 4 minutes. fuck this. SKYRIM.

I came home, started dating a guy i’d liked for almost a year, had trauma counselling, and pretty much stopped cutting. The occasional cut was due to frustration with unreasonable parents more than anything. I think i cut myself maybe 4 times over those 5 months.

Not to mention loverboy never even knew about the cutting. It was kind of funny actually, I was too focused on him and drinking and where we stood to think about cutting, in a way, he was what got me to stop, after 7 years, and he never even knew i was depressed.

Then I went back to university, had a lovely break up (it was quite amicable, even though I’d get back with him in a heartbeat) and the feeling of loneliness came back and i returned to doing what i do best. Draining blood.

I do it when I don’t feel anything else. I’m not empty, like they describe killers in Criminal Minds, I hate the sight of bones, and muscle, and REALLY gory stuff, and i would never dream of hurting anyone else, although i do occasionally topple a chair or slam a door (i alway apologize….which could be a problem in and of itself.) but when i cut i get distracted with important thoughts such as

“shit i don’t want to bleed on that?” or “hmm how should i get this to stop?” or “i wonder how this will look healed?”   I don’t have time for thoughts like”why don’t I care about being alive, yet at the same time am scared of mortality?” 

I guess I didn’t cut because I was too busy thinking about making my important people happy to think about how frustrated and hopeless all my other thoughts are.

I wish I could find someone who i could make happy, and who wanted me to be happy. I hate to think i’m cutting because i’m alone, but at the same time, its not much worse than cutting because i have nothing else to do.

Am I dangerous? I don’t want to die. I have people that I love, and people that love me, but sometimes I wish they didn’t love me, so that I could just die and no one would care.

I don’t want to hurt the people I care about, and when you’re truely depressed, apparently other people don’t factor into your suicide plans so I’m not too far gone.

I wish I was a MarySue. but i’m more like marissa from the OC…..oh dear lord, what a terribly accurate comparission. FML.

Part 2.

I was at a concert with my friends and I lost them in the mosh pit, when i went outside to call them a guy put a knife at my throat and started dragging me back into an alley. I’ve always been terrified that something like that would happen, call it my adhd’s “impending sense of doom,” so i was armed. I fought back, broke free and as i was running away the guy slashed at my back cutting really deep. At the hospital the doctor saw my scars and asked me if i was sure I didn’t do it myself and was making a cover up story.

It made think of why I stopped in the first place. I guess I didn’t feel so lonely, I didn’t feel like such a mess, I didn’t really feel like I needed to bleed.

But getting cut brought it all back, the fear of having my life taken away by someone else, that someone else could make me bleed, and somewhere i’d never cut either, it was the only part of my body without a scar, and now there’s a huge one.

Every night after that, sometimes even during the day, I whittled away at the patch of skin above my ankle. It started out as cutting, then it turned into skinning, because that produced much more blood. Until a month later, I passed out in my room, my friend got worried when i didn’t return her calls and got someone to check on me. At which point i was taken to the hospital, given a transfusion, and diagnosed with PTSD. I came home from university, and being surrounded by friends and family made it better, safer, and the cutting stopped again.

Part 1 of my life i guess. I just wanna chronicle how i became so fucked up.

I’m normally a happy person. Well. No i’m not. I’ve always scratched at things and made them bleed for as long as I can remember. like…grade 4. By grade 8 if i didn’t have something to pick at, I’d make something. They started out as pretty pictures, not cutting mind you, I etched them into my skin. A heart with a K+J inside it…the ‘j’ was backwards. a 666 like in the omen on my ankle, a pentagram on my hand. all immature things that i thought were so cool. 

Next came words. “The End” etched into my knee, Pain on my right hip, Escape on my arm, etc.

Bu grade 10 it devolved, i’d figured out how to dismantled a razor a blade and i was pretty nifty with it, shallow cuts on my legs and wrists, Never my back, never my stomach, rarely my face. I never really cared about hiding it, but i wasn’t like LOOK AT MY CUTS EITHER.   And the summer before my second year of university I stopped. after 10 years of blood, and 6 years of cutting, I stopped. for about 4 months.

zombie in production. I love halloween or zombie times. its the only time its normal to be covered in blood. It isn’t done with any particular style or finesse. but still…well whatever, it’s a work in progress