I broke. I cut again. I’ve done it 4 times this week. It’s getting worse. It’s getting harder to stop myself every time.
I regressed, I went from box cutter blades, to pocket knives, and the scars weren’t as bad, the blood wasn’t so visual, it made it easy to ignore the cravings, knowing the end result would be coupled with a shame and guilt at how little damage I could do to myself.
But, I fucked up. I added box cutters to the cart. Deep down, I knew. I already knew what I wanted.
The first slice was a shock, I forgot how thin the blade was, how easily the skin just seperates, how quickly the blood begins to swell up until it breaks the surface tension and runs down my skin. It was intoxicating. It was a self destructive headspace, and it won. I don’t know how many I did. I lost count. My entire right arm is screaming it’s disapproval, while my mind sinks into the euphoria of letting it go again.
I crave my own death. I crave the end, I’m so fucking tired… I don’t want to do this anymore…
I told a friend today “If I ever lose my battle with mental health, just know that I love and appreciate you”
And I don’t know if they caught it, I don’t know if they even realized it, but that admittance felt like the last stopper in holding the floodgates. I don’t feel steady, I feel like I’m slipping out of myself, I wish I could take this skin and slice it from top to bottom, so that I could peel it back and finally free myself of this fucking hell.
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