Therapist is mad at mom. Therapist lectures mom, saying that it is very dangerous for me to be home. She is worried for me and I am a risk to my own safety. A hospital would be the best place for me, she says. I'm too destructive and am going to slip up sometime and no one will be able to mend my body. She worries I will bleed out.
I get new pills to rearrange and rearrange and rearrange my mind over and over until they get the combination they want of me.
I swear I cut. It was so vivid. It would not have been the first time I cut in this bathroom, in this building. I took my pink compact out of my pocket, wrapped the mirrored side in a paper towel and smashed it with my fist. Picked out a long, sharp shard and slashed the underside of both my arms. The blood dripped quickly to the floor, still warm as it hit a forming puddle on the cracked grey [once white] tile. My skin opens up, wide and gaping. Deeper and deeper, digging for some hidden treasure far inside.
I snap out of it, and I'm just standing there. Alone, not with my blood. I didn't break my heart compact, it's still intact and I can feel its shape in my pocket.
I am disgusted and feel like I should be doing something, something tearing and monstrous. So I lean over the toilet, spill some of mysel and feel better. Flush, wash hands, go see J. All smiles and nodding.
All day binge. All day purge. All day full and empty and wanting the opposite of what I have.
I'm so fucking scared.
Also, I was diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder today. Which I think is bullshit.
I want to cut so fucking bad.
the deeper you cut it only gets worse,
the deeper you cut, the deeper i hurt.
i won't let you say goodbye, and i'll be your reason why.
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