|Mom, I’m out of peanut butter!|
I’m not a happy camper. Plenty of reasons why. I burned myself yesterday. It’s only a bummer because it doesn’t hurt today. I know what will.
We sent a scathing email to Therapist last night. I’d be nonplussed if he didn’t tell me not to come back. But he deserved it. He thinks I’m too mature, which means too old, to self-harm. Probs buys into the idea it’s a young person’s disease.
Maybe I am too old to engage in such behaviors, but then why do I want to do it so bad? Why does it feel so good? It might not always feel good. There is shame in it and a wondering of why I’m acting so foolishly. I should and do know better, but it’s better than nothing. Reality is filled with uncertainty, disrepair, and unidentified emotions, and I’d do anything to escape reality. I don’t know how to handle myself in a way that is positive and satisfies my need to have people worry about me. I wish someone worried about me.
I can’t make myself stop. How do you make someone stop feeling ten years old? That’s how old I feel at this moment. How can I be mature when I feel like a child? Who cares anyhow?
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