same high that it was before. It wasn’t a punishment, but it wasn’t a reward either. It was just something I had to do in order to exhale. I started dating around (read: sleeping around) in a stupid “MUST FEEL SOMETHING” mentality. I started drinking too much when I was at home and then, numb but still sad, hacking up my thighs. Something in me settled, although I’m not sure what it was other than time calming me the fuck down, and I began to work on my singing and playing. I began meeting with songwriters at a downtown coffee shop, singing my original songs, getting a good response. I felt validated. I started dieting, started losing weight, started a better job, started dating Eric. I was holding on, finally, and things were coming together. I was healed. A few months into our relationship, we had a health scare that shook me to my core. I had no control… and I fell back into my old habit. I cut, and it felt so good. It was my danger, and I loved it. Well, loved it until I found myself wearing a longsleeved sweater in 90+ degree weather. At that point, I felt melodramatic, childish, and embarrassed… just like the last time. Something about that - realizing that after all this time, I was right back where I’d started - really pissed me off. I threw my razor blades away. This pretty much leads me to where I’m at now. I haven’t cut in about two weeks, and I’ve never gone as far as I did that night in February. Dark thoughts seem to plague me, and I get in weird moods when I feel numb and broken and all-around fucked up. I have times when I need the release, but I’m trying to work through it, to find other outlets, like my music or my writing. Today was one of those quietly dissatisfying days. I smoked three cigarettes on my drive home, grabbed a Coke, and sat down at my laptop to write this — my release.
23