Six Months, One Week, And...
?????
See, here's the thing. A few nights ago, I don't remember exactly which night it was, I had one of the pocketknives I found on Saturday, and I didn't really mean to do it, but I took the blade and tested the tip by drawing it fairly lightly straight down the centre of my left shin. Twice, actually. I didn't even want to admit to myself that yes, I'd cut myself again, because they didn't even bleed, I didn't even see them until a few hours later when they'd turned into simple red lines, only just slightly too straight, too even and too red to be passed off as cat scratches.
The funny thing is, the next day I didn't even think about it, and I put on shorts, and then at some point during the day I looked down and I was shocked at how glaringly obvious they looked to me. On the one hand, I'm kind of surprised no one has noticed, but on the other I guess it's not so strange, I guess I've probably been kind of keeping that shin behind my other leg instinctively. I did think a little bit this morning about whether I could really get away with wearing shorts to see my therapist, but it was just too hot and muggy for jeans. Now that I'm thinking about it, there was a brazenness to my decision to wear the shorts that I rather like. I'm not entirely sure whether she would have asked me about them if she did notice them, it seems to me that she would but I'm really not sure.
I suppose that for the last few days I've been avoiding the knowledge that I cut myself again. Because it was so pointless, I guess, but because I have to understand that even though it was pointless it re-opens that door. I can't pretend that I didn't actually cut myself, I can't pretend that I didn't break my abstinence, even though it was just two measly lines that didn't even bleed. I have to admit the darkest feeling in my heart right now, which is that hey, if I've cut myself again and I can no longer count my days of abstinence, I might as well treat myself to a proper blade-dance. In fact, as sad as this is, I can feel the certainty within me that I will do it. I don't know when I'll do it, but it is inevitable. I know what I want, and I know I'm going to do it.
I can be okay with this if I make one promise to myself: that I will not do it until I can do it exactly the way I want to. I won't do it as an act of desperation, and I won't do it until I'm certain that I can avoid being caught, even if it means waiting a while. I once said that recreational cutting is a winter's sport. It ain't winter now. I promise myself that I will allow myself to do it when I can do it exactly right, in a way that will be worth waiting for, and will truly give me what I need from it. Then I will return to my abstinence. There will be no casual flicks of the craft knife at the forearm near the elbow creeping in in the meantime, no testing edges of blades, no doodling on the shins with the tip of that accursed pocketknife.
Control. Control must always be the watchword. Ever has it been and ever will it be thus...
Am I a complete madwoman?
See, here's the thing. A few nights ago, I don't remember exactly which night it was, I had one of the pocketknives I found on Saturday, and I didn't really mean to do it, but I took the blade and tested the tip by drawing it fairly lightly straight down the centre of my left shin. Twice, actually. I didn't even want to admit to myself that yes, I'd cut myself again, because they didn't even bleed, I didn't even see them until a few hours later when they'd turned into simple red lines, only just slightly too straight, too even and too red to be passed off as cat scratches.
The funny thing is, the next day I didn't even think about it, and I put on shorts, and then at some point during the day I looked down and I was shocked at how glaringly obvious they looked to me. On the one hand, I'm kind of surprised no one has noticed, but on the other I guess it's not so strange, I guess I've probably been kind of keeping that shin behind my other leg instinctively. I did think a little bit this morning about whether I could really get away with wearing shorts to see my therapist, but it was just too hot and muggy for jeans. Now that I'm thinking about it, there was a brazenness to my decision to wear the shorts that I rather like. I'm not entirely sure whether she would have asked me about them if she did notice them, it seems to me that she would but I'm really not sure.
I suppose that for the last few days I've been avoiding the knowledge that I cut myself again. Because it was so pointless, I guess, but because I have to understand that even though it was pointless it re-opens that door. I can't pretend that I didn't actually cut myself, I can't pretend that I didn't break my abstinence, even though it was just two measly lines that didn't even bleed. I have to admit the darkest feeling in my heart right now, which is that hey, if I've cut myself again and I can no longer count my days of abstinence, I might as well treat myself to a proper blade-dance. In fact, as sad as this is, I can feel the certainty within me that I will do it. I don't know when I'll do it, but it is inevitable. I know what I want, and I know I'm going to do it.
I can be okay with this if I make one promise to myself: that I will not do it until I can do it exactly the way I want to. I won't do it as an act of desperation, and I won't do it until I'm certain that I can avoid being caught, even if it means waiting a while. I once said that recreational cutting is a winter's sport. It ain't winter now. I promise myself that I will allow myself to do it when I can do it exactly right, in a way that will be worth waiting for, and will truly give me what I need from it. Then I will return to my abstinence. There will be no casual flicks of the craft knife at the forearm near the elbow creeping in in the meantime, no testing edges of blades, no doodling on the shins with the tip of that accursed pocketknife.
Control. Control must always be the watchword. Ever has it been and ever will it be thus...
Am I a complete madwoman?